«THE-  POEMS  -OF 


SELECTED&EDITED 


„ 


THS  TOSMS 

of 
WILLIAM 


SELECTED  AND  EDITED 
BY 

COLJTGLL 


NEW  YORK 

T.  C<f(pWELL  &  CO- 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,   1904 
by   Thomas   Y.    Crowe/I  W    Co. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

BIBLIOGRAPHY xi 

INTRODUCTION xv 

EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS 1 

The  Defence  of  Guenevere 3 

King  Arthur's  Tomb 12 

Sir  Peter  Harpdon's  End 24 

Rapunzel 48 

Concerning  Geffray  Teste  Noire 59 

Old  Love 65 

Shameful  Death 67 

The  Eve  of  Crecy 69 

The  Gilliflower  of  Gold 70 

The  Judgment  of  God 72 

The  Haystack  in  the  Floods 74 

Riding  Together 79 

Winter  Weather 80 

The  Blue  Closet 83 

Praise  of  my  Lady 85 

Summer  Dawn 88 

THE  LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF  JASON  (Selection  of  Songs)  .  89 

A  Garden  by  the  Sea 91 

"  O  surely,  now  the  Fisherman  " 92 

"  Alas  1  for  Saturn's  Days  of  Gold  "    .        .        .        .92 
vii 


2037813 


viii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

«  O  Death,  that  maketh  Life  so  Sweet "  .        .95 

The  Argonauts  and  the  Sirens 96 

To  Geoffrey  Chaucer 102 

THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE  (Selections)      ....  103 

An  Apology 105 

The  Author  to  the  Reader 106 

L'Envoi 107 

The  Months 110 

Song  from  The  Love  of  Alcestis 117 

Song  from  Cupid  and  Psyche 118 

Song  from  The  Hill  of  Venus 119 

Song  from  The  Man  who  never  Laughed  Again         .  120 
Atalanta's  Race    .        .        .        .        ,        .        .        .121 

Ogier  the  Dane 140 

The  Fostering  of  Aslaug      ......  178 

SIGURD  THE  VOLSUXG  (Selections) 217 

Regin 219 

Brynhild       .        .        .        .        .        .,       .        .        .257 

Gudrun 275 

POEMS   BY  THE  WAY.     SOCIALISTIC,  ROMANTIC,  AND 

ICELANDIC 287 

From  the  Upland  to  the  Sea 289 

Hope  Dieth :  Love  Liveth 290 

The  Hall  and  the  Wood 291 

Goldilocks  and  Goldilocks   .       .       .       .        .        .296 

The  Son's  Sorrow 319 

Gunnar's  Howe  above  the  House  at  Lithend       .        .    321 

The  Folk-mote  by  the  River 322 

The  Burghers' Battle   .        .        .        .        .        .        .329 

The  Voice  of  Toil  .    331 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The  Day  is  Coining 332 

The  Message  of  the  March  Wind        .        .        .        .335 

Drawing  near  the  Light 338 

Mine  and  Thine 338 

A  Death  Song .        -  339 

Down  among  the  Dead  Men 340 

Songs  from  Love  is  Enough 341 

Verses  for  a  Bed  Hanging 343 

Lines  from  Title  Pages 344 

"  Masters  in  this  Hall " 345 

NOTES 349 

INDEX  OF  TITLES 359 


BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

I.    POEMS  FIRST  PUBLISHED  SEPARATELY. 


1858.  Sir  Galahad,  a  Christmas  Mystery.  The  Defence  of 
Guenevere  and  Other  Poems. 

1867.  The  Life  and  Death  of  Jason. 

1868.  The  Earthly  Paradise. 

1870.  Certain  Songs  from  the  Elder  Edda:  In  "  Volsunga 
Saga  "  :  Translated  from  the  Icelandic.  (In  collabo- 
ration with  Eirikr  Magniisson.) 

1873.  Love  is  Enough,  or  the  Freeing  of  Pharamond:  A 
Morality. 

1876.  The  Two  Sides  of  the  River,  Hapless  Love,  and  the  First 

Foray  of  Aristomenes.  (Not  for  sale.)  (See  also 
under  II,  Poems  First  Published  in  Periodicals.)  The 
JEneids  of  Virgil :  Done  into  English  verse. 

1877.  The  Story  of  Sigurd  the  Volsung  and  the  Fall  of  the 

Niblungs. 

1878.  Wake,   London   Lads:   Air,  "The   Hardy  Norseman's 

Home  of  Yore."  (Pamphlet  for  distribution  at  an 
Exeter  Hall  meeting  on  January  16,  1878.) 

1885.  The  Day  is  Coming:  Chants  for  Socialists:  No.  1. 
(Pamphlet.)  Down  among  the  Dead  Men :  Chants 
for  Socialists  :  No.  7.  (In  pamphlet  with  six  other 
chants.)  (See  II,  Poems  First  Published  in  Periodi- 
cals.) 

1887.  Alfred  Linnell :  Killed  in  Trafalgar  Square,  November 
20,  1887:  A  Death  Song.  (Pamphlet  with  music.) 
The  Odyssey  of  Homer :  Done  into  English  verse. 

1889.  A  Tale  of  the  House  of  the  Wolfings  and  All  the  Kindreds 

of  the  Mark :  Written  in  prose  and  in  verse. 

1890.  ("  The  Roots  of  the  Mountains  "  contains  a  number  of 

songs.) 

1891.  Poems  by  the  Way.     ("  The  Glittering  Plain  "  contains 

a  number  of  songs.) 

1895.  The  Tale  of  Beowulf :   Done  out  of  the  Old  English 

tongue.     (In  collaboration  with  A.  J.  Wyatt,  M.A.) 

1896.  Poetical  Works.     Cheaper  issue  in  ten  volumes. 

1897.  ("  The  Sundering  Flood  "  contains  a  number  of  songs.) 

xi 


xii  BIBLIOGRAPHY. 


H.    POEMS  FIRST  PUBLISHED  IN 
PERIODICALS. 

(Most  of  these  were  subsequently  collected  in  "Poems  by  the  Way.") 

1856.  Various  contributions  to  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge 
Magazine  :  "  Winter  Weather,"  January ;  "  Riding 
Together,"  May;  "  Hands,"  July ;  "The  Chapel  in 
Lyoness,"  September;  "Pray  but  One  Prayer  for  us," 
etc.,  October. 

1860.  Masters  in  this  Hall.  Twelve  quatrains  in  "Ancient 
Christmas  Carols,"  by  Edmund  Sedding. 

1868.  The  God  of  the   Poor:   Fortnightly   Review,   August, 

1868.  The  Two  Sides  of  the  River:  Fortnightly 
Review,  October,  1868. 

1869.  On  the  Edge  of  the  Wilderness :  Fortnightly  Review, 

April,  1869.    Hapless  Love :  Good  Words,  April,  1869. 
1871.     The  Seasons  :     Four  stanzas :  The  Academy,  February, 

1871.     (This  poem  appears  in  "  Poems  by  the  Way," 

with  a  new  stanza  in  place  of  that  on  "  Winter.")    The 

Dark  Wood :  Fortnightly  Review,  February,  1871. 
1876.     The  First  Foray  of  Aristomenes  :    Athenaeum,  May  13, 

1876. 
1879.     The  Legend  of  the  Briar  Rose.     Quatrains  on  the  Four 

Pictures,  by  Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones,  R.  A.  Black- 

burne's  Grosvenor  Notes,  1879. 

1884.  Three  Seekers:    To-day,  January,   1884.      Meeting    in 

Winter:  English  Illustrated  Magazine,  March,  1884. 
The  Voice  of  Toil :  Chants  for  Socialists  :  No.  2, 
Justice,  April  5,  1884.  All  for  the  Cause  :  Chants  for 
Socialists  :  No.  3,  Justice,  April  19, 1884.  No  Master : 
Chants  for  Socialists  :  No.  4,  Justice,  June  7,  1884. 

1885.  The  March   of  the  Workers:     Chants  for    Socialists: 

No.  5,  Commonweal,  February,  1885.  The  Message 
of  the  March  Wind :  Chants  for  Socialists :  No.  6, 
Commonweal,  March,  1885.  (This  also  forms  Book  I 
of  "The  Pilgrims  of  Hope.")  Socialists  at  Play: 
Prologue  spoken  at  the  entertainment  of  the  Socialist 
League,  June  11,  1885  :  Commonweal,  July,  1885. 
The  Pilgrims  of  Hope :  A  poem  in  thirteen  books : 
Commonweal,  March,  April,  May,  June,  August,  Sep- 
tember, and  November,  1885,  and  January,  March, 
April,  May  8,  June  5,  and  July  3,  1886. 

1888.     The  Burgher's  Battle :  Athemeum,  June  16,  1888. 

1890.  The  Hall  and  the  Wood :  English  Illustrated  Magazine, 
February,  1890.  The  Day  of  Days :  Time,  November, 
1890. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY.  xiii 

1892.  May  Day :  Justice,  April  30,  1892. 

1893.  The  Ordination  of  Knighthood:   Translation  in  verse 

of  "L'Orderre  de   Chevalerie"  in   "The    Order  of 
Chivalry." 

1894.  May  Day,  1894 :  Justice,  May  5,  1894. 


in.    SOME  APPRECIATIONS  AND  CRITICISMS. 

1858.  Athenaeum,  April  3,  1858.  (Defence  of  Guenevere.) 
Spectator,  February  27,  1858.  (Defence  of  Guene- 
vere.) 

1867.  Athenaeum,  June  15,  1867.     (Life  and  Death  of  Jason.) 

A.  C.  Swinburne  in  Fortnightly  Review,  July,  1867. 
(Life  and  Death  of  Jason.)  Prof.  C.  E.  Norton  in 
Nation,  August  22,  1867.  (Life  and  Death  of  Jason.) 
Henry  James  in  North  American  Review,  Vol.  CV, 
p.  688.  (Life  and  Death  of  Jason.)  Spectator,  June  15, 
1867.  (Life  and  Death  of  Jason.) 

1868.  Athenaeum,  May   30,  1868.     (The   Earthly  Paradise.) 

Saturday  Review,  May  30,  1868.  (The  Earthly  Para- 
dise.) Westminster  Review,  1868,  p.  300.  Spectator, 
June  20,  1868.  (The  Earthly  Paradise.) 

1869.  Blackwood's  Magazine,  July,  1869.      Temple  Bar,  Au- 

gust, 1869. 

1870.  Quarterly  Review,  January,  1870. 

1871.  Edinburgh  Review,  January,  1871.     (The  Earthly  Para- 

dise.) New  Monthly  Magazine,  September,  1871. 
"  Our  Living  Poets."  By  H.  Buxton  Forman.  XFV, 
William  Morris. 

1872.  Quarterly  Review,  January,  1872.     (The  Earthly  Para- 

dise.) Athenaeum,  November  23,  1872.  (Love  is 
Enough.) 

1873.  Spectator,  January  11,  1873.     (Love  is  Enough.) 

1874.  Henry  G.  Hewlett  in  Contemporary  Review,  December, 

1875.  H.  Nettleship  in  Academy,  November  13,  1875. 

1876.  R.  H.  Stoddard  in  Appleton's  Journal,  1876,  p.  673. 

1877.  Henry  G.  Hewlett  in  Eraser's   Magazine,  July,  1877. 

(Sigurd  the  Volsung.)     Prof.  Henry  Morley  in  Nine- 
teenth Century,  November,  1877.     (Sigurd  the  Vol- 
sung.) 
1882.     Andrew  Lang  in  Contemporary  Review,  August,  1882. 

1887.  E.  D.  A.  Morshead  in  Academy,  April  30,  1887.    (Odys- 

sey of  Homer.) 

1888.  Prof.  E.  Dowden  in  "  Transcripts  and  Studies." 

1889.  W.    H.   Pater  in   "Appreciations."    Charles  Elton  in 

Academy,  February  9, 1889.    (House  of  the  Wolfings.) 


xiv  BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Henry  G.  Hewlett  in  Nineteenth  Century,  August, 
1889.  (House  of  the  Wolfings.)  Athenaeum,  Sep- 
tember 14, 1889.  (House  of  the  Wolfings.)  Saturday 
Review,  Vol.  LXVII,  p.  101.  (House  of  the  Wolfings.) 

1891.  M.  Hewlett  in  National  Review,  August,  1891.     Francis 

Watts  Lee  in  "William  Morris:  Poet,  Artist,  Socialist." 
A  selection  from  his  writings,  together  with  a  sketch 
of  the  man.  New  York. 

1892.  Athenaeum,  March  12,  1892.     (Poems  by  the  Way.) 

Louise  C.  Moulton  in  Arena,  June,  1892. 

1894.  Prof.  George  Saintsbury  in  the  Critic,  August  18,  1894. 

1895.  Theodore  Watts-Dunton  in  Athenaeum,  August  10, 1895. 

(Beowulf.)  Prof.  G.  Saintsbury  in  "  Corrected  Im- 
pressions," XIX  and  XX,  William  Morris. 

1896.  Andrew  Lang  in  Longman's  Magazine,  October,  1896. 

Joseph  Pennell  in  Daily  Chronicle,  October  5,  1896. 
Edmund  Gosse  in  St.  James'  Gazette,  October  5, 1896. 
Richard  le  Gallienne  in  The  Star,  October  7,  1896. 
Theodore  Watts-Dunton  in  the  Athenaeum,  October  10, 
1896.  Arthur  Symons  in  the  Saturday  Review,  Octo- 
ber 10,  1896.  Walter  Crane  in  Progressive  Review, 
November,  1896.  Bookman,  September,  1896.  Spec- 
tator, October  10,  1896. 

1897.  Edinburgh  Review,  January,  1897.     D.  F.  Hannigan  in 

Westminster  Review,  February,  1897.  Aylmer  Val- 
lance,  "  Morris,  his  Art,  his  Writings,  and  'his  Public 
Life."  Nowell  Smith  in  Fortnightly  Review,  Decem- 
ber, 1897. 

1898.  Stephen  Gwynn  in  Macmillan's  Magazine,  June,  1898. 

1899.  The  Life  of  William  Morris,  by  J.  W.  Mackail,  2  Vols. 

Quarterly  Review,  October,  1899. 

1900.  Edinburgh  Review,  April,  1900. 

1901.  Irene  Sargent,  "  William  Morris :  Some  Thoughts  upon 

his  Life,  Work,  and  Influence." 


INTRODUCTION. 
WILLIAM  MOERIS  (1834-1896). 

THE  MAN. 

"You  would  think  him  one  of  the  finest  little  fellows 
alive,  with  a  touch  of  the  incoherent,  but  a  real  man," 
wrote  Dante  Gabriel  Eossetti  to  William  Allingham,  of 
his  new  follower  and  friend,  William  Morris.  This  char- 
acterization of  the  enthusiastic  young  poet  seems  to  con- 
tain a  subtle  perception  of  the  general  qualities  which 
underlay  the  whole  life  of  the  great  craftsman  and  artist ; 
he  was  a  dreamer,  ever,  but  always  "a  real  man." 

William  Morris  was  born  at  Elm  House,  Clay  Hill, 
Walthamstow,  on  the  24th  of  March,  1834.  His  father, 
William  Morris,  was  a  prosperous  banker  of  Welsh 
descent ;  his  mother,  Emma  Shelton,  came  of  a  sturdy 
old  Worcestershire  family  of  the  middle  class.  Morris 
himself  was  the  third  of  nine  children  and  the  eldest 
son.  He  was  delicate  in  his  early  years,  and,  perhaps 
because  of  this,  was  a  precocious  book-worm,  reading  the 
Waverley  novels  at  the  age  of  four.  From  the  very 
beginning  he  was  noticed  to  possess  a  remarkable  mem- 
ory and  power  of  observation. 

When  the  lad  was  six  years  old,  his  family  moved  to 
Woodford  Hall,  which  stood  in  a  small  park  on  the  edge 
of  Epping  Forest.  He  lived  an  out-of-door  life  here, 
growing  into  a  strong,  healthy  boy,  and  learning  to  love 
the  birds  and  beasts  of  the  forest,  as  well  as  the  forest 
itself — a  "great  wood  of  hornbeams."  He  was  born 
with  a  love  for  all  things  mediaeval ;  and  this  love  was 
fed  by  some  of  the  customs  of  old  England  that  were 
still  observed  in  his  father's  house,  Twelfth  Night  rev- 
els, a  certain  independence  of  life  begot  by  the  self- 
reliance  of  a  large  estate  that  kills  its  own  meat  and 
brews  its  own  beer,  and  the  old-fashioned  relation  between 
master  and  dependents.  A  suit  of  armour,  in  which  he 
dressed  himself  for  pony-riding,  was  one  of  his  toys. 


xvi  INTRODUCTION. 

His  love  for  architecture  became  evident  at  this  early 
age ;  a  visit  to  Canterbury  Cathedral,  when  he  was  only 
eight  years  old,  made  a  lasting  impression.  His  mem- 
ory for  details  of  landscape  and  of  architecture  was 
wonderful. 

The  boy  was  sent  to  a  small  preparatory  school  at 
Walthamstow,  kept  by  the  Misses  Arundale,  when  he 
was  nine  years  old,  and  was  kept  in  this  school  till  the 
death  of  his  father  in  1847.  The  next  four  years  he 
spent  at  Marlborough  College,  near  Savernake  Forest. 
The  school  system  here  was  new,  half-formed,  and  not  at 
all  rigid.  The  boy  did  nearly  what  he  pleased,  reading 
archaeology  and  ecclesiastical  architecture,  and,  although 
he  was  "strong  and  thickset,"  preferring  long  walks 
over  the  downs  and  exploration  of  old  barrows,  to 
cricket  and  foot-ball.  A  year  with  a  private  tutor  inter- 
vened between  Marlborough  and  the  University  of  Ox- 
ford. Already  Morris  was  a  "  dreamer  of  dreams  " ;  he 
was  forever  making  stories  in  his  mind  about  people  and 
places  that  were  familiar  to  him;  not  ordinary  stories, 
but  dream  stories,  endeavouring  to  "  make  it  something 
different  from  what  it  was." 

In  the  years  1853-1855,  Morris  lived  at  Oxford  as  an 
undergraduate  in  Exeter  College.  Here,  in  the  first  two 
or  three  days  of  residence,  he  met  Edward  Burne-Jones, 
who  was  thenceforth  his  lifelong  friend  and  comrade. 
The  two  young  men  were  both  designed  for  Holy  Orders. 
Morris  was,  at  this  period,  a  complete  aristocrat  and  high 
churchman.  He  conceived  a  very  great  contempt  for  the 
educational  system  and  the  intellectual  life  of  Oxford, 
which  had  just  been  roused  from  its  mediaeval  slumber  by 
the  Tractarian  movement,  and  was  lying  open  to  the  inva- 
sion of  modern  ideas.  He  seems  to  have  lived  his  own  life 
here  quite  as  thoroughly  and  as  satisfactorily  as  he  had 
at  Marlborough,  but  here  he  was  not  alone.  He  read 
aloud  to  Burne-Jones  much  old  theology,  the  new  gos- 
pel of  Euskin,  the  rich  new  poetry  of  Tennyson.  He 
adopted  The  Heir  of  Reddyffe  as  his  pattern  of  manhood; 
and  in  Thorpe's  Northern  Mythology  he  got  the  first 
glimpse  of  that  great  store  of  Teutonic  legend  which  be- 
came, in  later  years,  the  dominant  force  in  his  life.  A 
vacation  journey  to  North  France  and  Belgium,  in  1854, 
gave  him  a  new  point  of  contact  with  the  Middle  Ages,  in 


INTRODUCTION.  xvii 

a  personal  familiarity  with  the  landscape  and  architecture 
of  a  region  in  which  the  name  of  every  village  recalls  a  page 
of  Froissart  or  some  chronicle  of  the  older,  heroic  days. 
But,  perhaps,  of  all  the  influences  recorded  during  the  Ox- 
ford days  there  is  none  more  important  than  that  of  "  the 
Brotherhood,"  which  included,  besides  Morris  and  Jones, 
Fulford,  Faulkner,  Canon  Dixon,  Cormell  Price,  and  Harry 
MacDonald.  These  men,  from  a  similarity  of  tastes  and 
aims,  gradually  drew  together,  with  Godfrey  Lushington 
of  Balliol,  and  Vernon  Lushington  and  Wilfred  Heeley  of 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  to  accomplish  certain  definite 
purposes.  But  several  of  them  formed  a  little  coterie  about 
Morris  during  most  of  the  college  days ;  out  of  their  talk 
of  high  things  came  high  resolves,  and  among  them  the 
poet  found  his  first  appreciation. 

There  is  something  dramatic  in  Canon  Dixon' s  account 
of  the  discovery  of  Morris's  poetic  talent,  an  unsuspected 
quality  in  his  vigorous  personality.  Dixon  and  Price 
went  into  his  room  one  evening  and  were  greeted  by 
Burne-Jones  with  the  exciting  exclamation  that  "Topsy  " 
—  so  called  because  of  "his  mass  of  dark,  curly  hair 
and  generally  unkempt  appearance  "  —  was  a  great  poet. 
They  listened,  then,  to  the  reading  of  his  first  poem,  TJie 
Willow  and  the  Red  Cliff,  which  was  destroyed  afterward, 
and  never  published.  Dixon  records  that  the  poem  was 
"perfectly  original  —  and  truly  striking  and  beautiful." 
It  was  as  if  a  prospector,  looking  for  silver  or  copper,  or 
almost  any  kind  of  metal,  were  to  come  at  once  upon  a 
vein  of  virgin  gold.  "  If  this  is  poetry,  it  is  very  easy 
to  write,"  said  Morris.  That  was  in  1855.  Thereafter 
the  writing  of  poems  was  his  frequent  pleasure ;  it  was 
never  his  sole,  nor,  except  for  short  periods,  his  chief 
occupation. 

During  the  months  that  followed  this  discovery,  he 
was  influenced  to  some  extent  by  Mrs.  Browning,  whose 
poetry  at  that  time  enjoyed  its  highest  popularity.  Her 
influence  was  remarked  by  his  friends  in  several  poems 
which  he  destroyed  unpublished,  and  in  a  few  which 
have  survived,  though  not  printed  in  any  collection  of 
his  writings.  At  the  same  time,  also,  he  discovered  that 
he  could  write  prose,  and  produced  several  prose  ro- 
mances which  were  afterward  printed  in  The  Oxford  and 
Cambridge  Magazine. 


xviii  INTRODUCTION. 

This  periodical  was  the  result  of  a  resolve  of  the 
Brotherhood  "to  found  and  conduct  a  Magazine  of  a 
really  high  order."  The  Germ  had  lately  run  its  short 
course  and  stopped  publication,  but  the  influence  of  the 
Pre-Raphaelites  had  laid  hold  of  the  enthusiastic  mem- 
bers of  Morris's  coterie,  and  it  produced  positive  results 
in  their  work.  The  first  number  of  the  magazine  ap- 
peared, January  1,  1856,  and  eleven  monthly  numbers 
followed,  completing  the  year,  before  issue  was  sus- 
pended. Contributions  were  made  by  Bernard  Cracroft 
and  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti,  outside  the  Brotherhood. 
Morris's  contributions  were  the  most  valuable,  including 
The  Hollow  Land,  and  several  other  prose  romances,  and 
Winter  Weather,  Hands,  and  two  or  three  more  of  the 
finest  poems  of  his  early  inspiration. 

Meanwhile,  in  1855,  Morris  went,  during  the  long 
vacation,  on  a  walking  tour  in  France  with  Burne-Jones 
and  Fulford,  and  upon  this  journey  Morris  and  Burne- 
Jones  definitely  decided  to  withdraw  from  their  designs 
upon  the  clerical  life,  and  to  be  artists,  the  one  an  archi- 
tect, the  other  a  painter.  Morris  apprenticed  himself  to 
Mr.  Street,  an  architect  in  Oxford,  on  January  21,  1856. 
About  this  time,  he  added  to  his  methods  of  recreation, 
wood-carving,  clay-modelling,  and  illuminating,  in  all  of 
which  he  seems  to  have  been  self-taught,  following  old 
models. 

During  this  winter,  Burne-Jones  met  Dante  Gabriel 
Rossetti,  at  the  Working  Men's  College  in  great  Ormond 
Street,  and  soon  introduced  him  to  Morris.  The  tremen- 
dous personal  magnetism  of  Rossetti  quickly  influenced 
both  the  young  men  who  had  already  been  enthusiastic 
worshippers  of  his  genius.  A  close  friendship  sprang 
up.  Both  came  to  London  and  became  pupils  of  the  Pre- 
Raphaelite  school,  working  under  the  personal  direction 
of  Rossetti.  Morris  gained,  also,  at  this  time,  the  friend- 
ship of  Robert  Browning,  whose  influence  upon  his  early 
poetry  is  easily  discernible,  but  the  powerful  personality 
of  Rossetti  dominated  his  life  completely  for  the  time 
being,  disturbing  his  equanimity,  withdrawing  him  from 
the  study  of  architecture,  and  setting  him,  along  with 
Burne-Jones,  to  learn  the  art  of  painting.  He  had  a 
wdhderful  eye  for  colour,  but  could  never  draw  the  human 
figure  successfully ;  and  although  he  worked  hard  for  a 


INTRODUCTION.  xix 

year  under  the  master's  eye,  lie  was  not  in  entire  har- 
mony with  himself  during  that  time. 

But  this  unsettled  period  was  a  time  of  beginnings. 
Besides  the  various  forms  of  decoration  at  which  he  had 
already  tried  his  hand,  he  was  led,  almost  by  chance,  it 

3.     He 


seemed,  into  the  designing  of  furniture.  He  took  un- 
furnished rooms  in  Red  Lion  Square.  The  ugly,  frail, 
modern  furniture  in  the  shops  excited  his  disdain,  and 
he  started,  with  characteristic  self-confidence,  to  design 
for  himself  a  few  pieces  which  should  be  both  useful 
and  decorative.  These  were  built  and  ornamented  by 
Morris  and  his  friends.  A  curious  incident  of  this  period 
was  the  attempted  decoration  of  the  walls  and  ceiling  of 
the  library  of  the  Oxford  Union,  which  was  undertaken 
by  Morris,  Burne-Jones,  and  Rossetti,  Arthur  Hughes, 
Spencer  Stanhope,  Val  Prinsep,  and  Hungerford  Pollen. 
None  of  them  knew  anything  about  fresco-painting,  and 
their  enthusiasm  was  balked  by  their  ignorance  of  some 
of  the  first  principles  of  the  art ;  but  the  eager  months 
spent  at  Oxford  restored  Morris  to  his  usual  equability 
of  mind. 

He  spent  the  autumn  of  1857  and  the  following  winter 
in  the  university  town,  working  variously.  He  added  the 
designing  of  stained  glass  and  embroidery  to  his  list  of 
crafts,  and  made  the  acquaintance  of  Swinburne  who  was 
at  Balliol.  In  the  following  March  he  published  his  first 
volume  of  poems,  TJie  Defence  of  Guenevere.  It  was 
hailed  with  delight  by  his  friends,  and  severely  criticised 
by  the  reviews ;  it  never  gained  much  popularity,  in  spite 
of  its  splendid  dramatic  qualities  and  the  genuineness  of 
its  medieevalism.  He  paid  little  attention  to  the  criticism 
and  went  serenely  about  his  own  business,  undisturbed 
by  what  people  said  of  his  work.  He  worked  primarily 
for  his  own  approval,  always.  Yet  serenity  could  hardly 
be  said  to  be  a  dominant  quality  of  his  temper.  He  was 
given  to  violent  and  picturesque  outbursts  of  temper ;  and 
Burne-Jones  writes  of  him,  at  this  time,  alarmed  because, 
having  fallen  in  love,  he  is  so  mild  that  in  six  months  he 
has  kicked  out  only  one  door  panel. 

While  working  on  the  Union  Library  at  Oxford,  Morris 
and  Kossetti  met  Miss  .Jane  Burden,  a  daughter  of  Mr. 
Robert  Burden  of  Holywell  Street.  They  were  first  at- 
tracted by  the  peculiar  beauty  of  her  face, —  familiar  in  sev- 


XX  INTRODUCTION. 

eral  of  Eossetti's  paintings,  —  and  persuaded  her  to  sit 
as  their  model,  but  with  Morris  the  attraction  was  much 
deeper,  and  he  was  married  to  her  on  April  26, 1859.  The 
removal  of  Morris  from  the  Bohemian  life  of  the  circle  was 
the  end  of  the  active,  united  work  of  the  Brotherhood. 

In  1860,  Morris  built  for  himself  Red  House,  near 
Upton,  in  Kent.  His  contempt  for  modern  designs  was 
a  serious  bar  to  the  work  of  procuring  furniture  for  his 
home,  and  led  to  the  establishment  of  the  firm  of  Morris 
&  Co.,  in  April,  1861.  Rossetti  and  Peter  Paul  Mar- 
shall, designers,  and  Morris,  Burne-Jones,  Ford  Madox 
Brown,  Webb,  and  Faulkner,  "craftsmen,"  were  the 
members  of  the  firm,  and  in  the  beginning  did  most  of 
the  work  themselves.  Besides  the  production  of  furni- 
ture for  Red  House,  church  decoration  was  their  main 
employment.  They  occupied  the  old  rooms  at  Red  Lion 
Square,  and  advertised  themselves  as  "  Fine  Art  Work- 
men in  Painting,  Carving,  Furniture  and  the  Metals." 

At  Red  House,  Morris  lived  for  four  happy  years. 
Two  children  were  born  here,  Jane  Alice  in  1861,  and 
May  in  1862.  During  these  years,  he  projected  a  cycle  of 
poems  upon  the  Trojan  War,  and  wrote  a  great  part  of  it, 
but  it  was  never  finished,  and  none  of  the  single  poems 
were  published.  The  business  of  the  firm  increased. 
Morris  furnished  most  of  the  capital  and  was,  from  the 
start,  the  most  active  of  the  partners.  In  1865,  he  took 
a  house  in  Queen  Square,  Bloomsbury,  and  moved  thither 
both  his  family  and  his  business. 

A  great  deal  of  his  time  was  occupied  by  the  managing 
of  the  business,  and  by  the  actual  work  of  the  craftsman, 
but  the  brain  of  Morris,  as  well  as  his  body,  was  indefati- 
gable, and  the  intervals  of  toil  were  occupied  by  the 
composition  of  The  Earthly  Paradise.  Ten  years  before, 
he  had  read  Chaucer,  and  forthwith  had  become  a  rever- 
ent admirer  of  the  great  master  of  narrative  poetry. 
Now  he  designed  a  long  series  of  narrative  poems,  bound 
together  by  a  prologue,  as  in  TJie  Canterbury  Tales.  He 
openly  called  Chaucer  his  master,  but  one  can  find  little 
imitation  in  The  Earthly  Paradise.  A  very  elaborate 
edition  was  designed,  to  be  illustrated  with  a  great  num- 
ber of  wood-cuts  by  Burne-Jones,  but  the  difficulties  in 
the  way  of  such  a  publication  were,  at  that  time,  insur- 
mountable, and  it  had  to  be  given  up.  Morris  worked 


INTRODUCTION.  xxi 

rapidly  at  the  writing  of  the  different  tales  that  composed 
the  series.  The  first  volume  was  published  by  Ellis,  in 
1868,  and  the  remaining  parts  in  the  year  that  followed. 
The  Life  and  Death  of  Jason  was  originally  designed  to 
take  a  place  in  the  series,  but  outgrew  the  plan,  and  was 
published  by  itself,  earlier,  gaining  instant  popularity 
and  the  applause  of  the  critics,  which  stimulated  Morris 
to  the  completion  of  The  Earthly  Paradise,  and  prepared 
a  favourable  reception  for  it. 

In  1869,  Morris  began  the  study  of  Icelandic  with 
Magnusson.  Kossetti's  influence  had  been  waning  for 
some  time,  and  disappeared  from  his  artistic  life,  per- 
haps with  the  rise  of  this  vigorous  Northern  influence. 
With  Magnusson,  Morris  published  translations  of  the 
Grettis  Saga,  and  several  other  Icelandic  stories  in  the 
following  months,  notably  a  prose  version  of  the  Volsunga 
Saga,  in  1870.  After  finishing  The  Earthly  Paradise,  he 
went  to  work  with  renewed  vigour  at  the  illumination  of 
manuscripts,  introducing  new  and  original  methods  into 
this  craft,  in  which  he  took  peculiar  delight. 

In  1871,  he  bought  Kelmscott  Manor,  on  the  Thames, 
thirty  miles  above  Oxford.  In  the  same  year  he  made 
his  first  journey  to  Iceland,  riding  over  a  great  part  of 
the  island,  visiting  the  scenes  of  the  historical  sagas, 
and  increasing  at  every  step  his  enthusiastic  veneration 
for  this  bleak  land  whose  half-forgotten  literature  had 
already  become,  for  him,  the  fountain-head  of  romance. 
This  visit  inspired  in  him  further  activity  in  his  work 
with  the  sagas ;  it  produced  two  lyrics,  Iceland  First  Seen 
and  the  splendid  lines  on  Gunnar's  Howe  above  the  House 
at  Lithend,  and  it  fixed  upon  him  the  hold  of  the  semi- 
legendary,  Icelandic  life  so  that  not  only  his  artistic  bent, 
but  even  his  social  theories  were  affected  by  it. 

Morris  was  "  feeling  about "  for  new  modes  of  expres- 
sion at  this  time,  and  planned  and  started  a  novel  of  con- 
temporary life,  but  he  soon  became  disgusted  with  it  and 
gave  it  up.  The  fragment  was  never  published.  In 
Love  is  Enough,  which  appeared  in  1872,  he  abandons 
the  method  of  epic  narrative,  which  was  gradually 
evolved  in  The  Earthly  Paradise,  for  a  dramatic  form 
resurrected  from  the  end  of  the  mediaeval  period  in 
English  literature.  The  "  morality "  displays  an  elabo- 
rate structure  of  four  concentric  planes  of  action,  and  is 


xxii  INTRODUCTION. 

remarkable  for  the  technical  care  exhibited  in  the  execu- 
tion of  the  delicate  task ;  but  the  very  ingenuity  displayed 
in  the  complicated  experiment,  in  a  measure,  defeated 
any  purpose  of  making  the  form  a  popular  one. 

The  business  of  Morris  &  Co.,  meanwhile,  was  grow- 
ing, so  that  the  quarters  in  Queen  Square  were  becoming 
crowded.  Morris  moved  his  family  into  a  small  house 
between  Hammersmith  and  Turnham  Green,  leaving  the 
whole  of  the  Bloomsbury  House  to  the  firm.  Although 
Faulkner,  Webb,  Marshall,  Burne-Jones,  Rossetti,  and 
Madox  Brown  were  all  members  of  the  original  com- 
pany, Morris  had  furnished  practically  all  of  the  capital, 
and  had,  alone  of  the  partners,  devoted  his  entire  time  to 
the  business.  It  involved,  from  the  beginning,  the  whole 
of  his  resources,  and,  after  the  first  doubtful  years,  had 
been  put  on  a  paying  basis  and  gradually  extended  by  his 
exertions.  Now  it  became  desirable  to  dissolve  the  part- 
nership, which  was  done  in  1875,  and  Morris  conducted 
the  business  alone  from  that  time,  retaining  the  old  name 
of  "  Morris  &  Co."  By  the  original  agreement,  all  the 
partners  had  equal  rights  to  the  assets  of  the  firm  — 
which  at  this  time  involved  Morris's  whole  fortune.  Ros- 
setti,  Madox  Brown,  and  Marshall  stood  upon  their  legal 
right  in  this  matter,  while  the  other  partners  waived  all 
claims.  There  was  a  complicated  negotiation,  which  was 
finally  settled  without  crippling  Morris,  but  the  dispute 
made  a  breach  between  Morris  and  the  litigants,  and 
finally  destroyed  the  waning  friendship  between  him 
and  Rossetti.  Webb  and  Burne-Jones  continued  to 
work  for  the  firm  as  designers,  and  Morris,  with  his 
usual  versatility,  learned  the  art  of  dyeing,  and  added 
this  branch  of  business,  with  the  manufacture  of  deco- 
rative chintzes  and  tapestries,  to  the  activities  of  the 
firm,  which  prospered  greatly. 

During  all  this  he  found  time  for  travelling  and  writ- 
ing. In  1873,  he  visited  Italy,  but  found  there  little 
reason  for  enthusiasm;  he  had  no  use  for  the  work  of 
the  Renaissance.  In  the  same  year,  he  made  a  second 
journey  to  Iceland,  and  in  the  following  summer  visited 
Belgium  with  his  family.  In  1875,  he  published  Three 
Northern  Love  Stories,  prose  translations  from  the  Ice- 
landic, and  a  translation  in  verse  of  Virgil's  ^Eneid. 
This  latter  was  a  work  of  immense  labour  and  was 


INTRODUCTION.  xxiii 

accomplished  with  some  success.  A  year  later  appeared 
Sigurd  the  Volsung,  in  which  the  poet  has  wrought  his 
will  with  the  great  Teutonic  race  epic. 

After  the  publication  of  Sigurd,  came  a  long  period  of 
comparative  literary  inactivity.  The  poet  became  ab- 
sorbed in  the  man  of  affairs.  He  put  his  energies  into 
the  Society  for  the  Protection  of  Ancient  Buildings,  and 
the  Eastern  Question  Association;  he  wrote  political 
verse  in  his  zeal  for  discussion  over  the  Russo-Turkish 
War,  and  Wake,  London  Lads,  for  a  Socialist  meeting 
at  Exeter  Hall,  hi  1877.  A  journey  to  Iceland,  and  the 
addition  of  silk-weaving  to  the  business  of  the  firm, 
interrupted  but  little  his  Socialistic  activities,  but  an 
attack  of  rheumatic  gout  compelled  him  to  hold  his 
energies  in  leash  for  a  time.  His  first  public  lecture 
was  delivered  before  the  Trades  Guild  of  Learning  in 
December  of  1877,  upon  "The  Lesser  Arts."  In  the 
following  year,  he  moved  his  family  into  Kelmscott  House, 
Hammersmith.  He  devoted  himself  to  Socialism  and  to 
the  weaving  branch  of  his  business  which,  altogether, 
developed  so  that  it  had  to  seek  new  quarters.  In  1881, 
he  moved  it  to  Merton  Abbey,  in  Surrey,  on  the  river 
Wandle,  where  he  was  able  to  find  room  for  all  his  dif- 
ferent crafts  in  one  place  —  dye-vats,  glass-painting  sheds, 
weaving  room,  print-room,  tapestry  looms,  embroidery 
frames,  and  all  the  subsidiary  industrial  appliances. 

For  ten  years,  from  1880  to  1890,  Socialism  was  the 
dominant  factor  in  his  life.  He  conducted  Justice,  the 
organ  of  the  Democratic  Federation.  He  lectured,  or 
preached,  as  he  called  it,  to  countless  gatherings  of  work- 
ing-men, and  to  college  men,  too,  on  the  occasions  when 
he  could  get  such  an  audience.  He  threw  all  his  energy 
into  the  Socialistic  propaganda,  and  was  one  of  the 
leaders  in  the  councils  of  the  Federation.  When  the 
Federation  became  unwieldy,  and  harmony  was  no  longer 
possible,  Morris  and  a  few  other  leaders  drew  away  and 
formed  the  Socialist  League,  for  the  propagation  of  pure 
Socialism.  He  conducted  The  Commonweal,  the  organ 
of  the  League,  contributing  to  it  TJie  Pilgrims  of  Hope, 
a  series  of  poems  containing  passages  of  genuine  worth, 
but  in  general  full  of  journalistic  faults.  After  a  few 
years,  came  times  of  violence,  particularly  a  dark  Sunday 
in  Trafalgar  Square  in  1886,  when  a  Socialist  meeting 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION. 

was  broken  up  by  the  police  and  military,  and  one  man 
was  killed.  The  possibilities  of  actual  social  revolution 
seemed  more  remote  than  ever.  Morris's  vision  of  a  new 
mediaeval  Utopia  grew  dim,  and  the  old  bright  dreams 
of  romance,  clamouring  for  expression,  took  possession 
of  him  once  more.  Gradually  he  withdrew  from  active 
Socialism,  and  became  absorbed  in  other  things,  giving, 
once  more,  to  literature  a  fair  share  of  his  energy,  —  not 
that  he  lost  sympathy  with  Socialism,  but  that  he  ceased 
to  be  an  active  propagandist,  and  saw,  perhaps,  the  im- 
practicability of  some  of  his  ideas. 

Socialism  had  taken  hold  of  Morris  by  slow  degrees. 
In  Oxford,  at  first,  he  was  a  pronounced  believer  in 
aristocracy,  but  as  he  lived  in  London  and  saw  the 
squalor  of  the  working-men's  life,  he  was  irresistibly 
drawn  into  sympathy  with  their  condition  and  a  great 
desire  to  improve  it.  He  was  a  craftsman  himself  and 
loved  work.  It  seemed  to  him  a  terrible  thing  that  any 
man  should  have  to  do  work  he  hated.  He  believed  that 
by  teaching  some  knowledge  of  the  arts  to  working-men 
they  could  be  led  to  see  beauty  and  to  enjoy  making  beau- 
tiful things.  His  idea  of  social  revolution  was  a  resto- 
ration of  the  ancient  Icelandic  folk-rule  with  the  violence 
of  the  old  days  eliminated  by  the  influence  of  some  subtle, 
spiritual  emollient,  law  being  replaced  by  custom,  all 
men  and  women  working  because  they  enjoyed  the  work, 
a  love  of  beauty  animating  the  craftsman,  and  the  labours 
of  life  become  a  joy  because  they  were  shared  in  univer- 
sal good-fellowship.  The  fullest  explanation  of  this 
visionary  millennium  may  be  found  in  News  from 
Nowhere,  which  is  a  fascinating  dream,  however  scepti- 
cal one  may  be  as  to  the  possibilities  of  its  realization. 

The  Odyssey  had  long  appealed  to  Morris  because  of  its 
saga  qualities.  He  translated  it,  not  very  successfully, 
and  published  the  translation  in  1887.  About  the  same 
time  he  wrote  a  curious  play,  applying  the  method  of  the 
old  "morality,"  to  a  modern  farce,  The  Tables  Turned, 
or  Nupkins  Awakened,  which  was,  of  course,  of  a  Socialis- 
tic tendency.  It  was  performed  successfully  two  or  three 
times  in  the  open  air,  at  Faringdon  Road,  Morris  himself 
acting  in  it.  In  1888,  he  published  the  Dream  of  John 
Ball,  Signs  of  Change,  a  volume  of  lectures,  and  The  House 
of  the  Wblfings,  a  prose  romance  of  a  distinctly  Icelandic 


INTRODUCTION.  -xxv 

tone.  The  Socialistic  impulse  had  spent  its  active  force 
in  him  by  this  time.  His  watchword,  "Education  to- 
ward revolution,"  was  gradually  bearing  fruit,  the  teach- 
ing of  the  masses ;  gradually,  there  had  gathered  about 
him  a  group  of  skilled  craftsmen,  men  who  laboured  in  a 
dozen  different  lines  and  owned  him  as  their  master  and 
inspiration;  his  decorative  ideas  were  gradually  per- 
meating the  English  mind,  his  persistent,  aggressive 
romanticism  was  bearing  influence  in  various  ways.  At 
this  time  was  formed  the  Arts  and  Crafts  Exhibitions 
Society,  first  called  the  "Combined  Arts."  Now  came 
the  inception  of  his  last  essay  in  a  new  art,  —  the  art  of 
book-making. 

He  had,  from  the  earliest  days,  decried  the  degeneracy 
of  modern  printing  and  binding,  and  had  projected  two 
or  three  big  innovations  only  to  find  that  they  were  im- 
possible because  of  the  inadequate  means  at  the  command 
of  the  publishers.  When  the  Home  of  the  Wolfings  was 
printed,  he  took  a  particular  interest  in  its  typography, 
and  as  the  Boots  of  the  Mountains  followed  in  1889  he 
continued  to  study  the  whole  art  of  book-making  with.the 
purpose  of  starting  the  business  himself.  This  was  the 
inception  of  the  Kelmscott  Press,  which  he  set  up  in  1890, 
at  Hammersmith.  The  first  book  printed  on  it  was  Tlie 
Stoi-y  of  the  Glittering  Plain,  which  was  finished  April  4, 
1891,  and  published  by  Reeves  &  Turner,  his  regular  pub- 
lishers. Mr.  Ellis  was  his  partner  in  the  Press.  Morris 
designed  the  fonts  of  type  for  this  press,  following  old 
Gothic  models.  He  conducted,  himself,  the  making  of 
the  paper  for  some  of  the  books  printed,  and  he  designed 
many  of  the  page  ornaments  and  illuminated  many  of  the 
initials  with  his  own  hand.  Burne- Jones  did  much  of 
the  illustration  and  designing. 

The  next  five  years,  the  last  of  his  life,  were  filled  with 
the  writing  of  prose  romances,  some  of  the  most  fascinat- 
ing memorials  of  his  literary  production,  with  trans- 
lations from  the  Icelandic  and  French,  and  with  the 
activities  of  the  Kelmscott  Press.  He  published,  with 
Quaritch,  the  Saga  Library,  and  translated  several  French 
romances  of  the  thirteenth  century.  On  the  press,  he 
printed  Poems  by  the  Way,  a  collection  of  his  own  fugitive 
pieces,  in  1891;  Caxton's  Golden  Legend,  and  Godefroy 
of  Boulogne  followed  in  increasing  magnificence.  Other 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION. 

smaller  books  were  published,  but  the  crowning  achieve- 
ment was  the  Kelmscott  Chaucer,  completed  in  June  of 
1896,  four  months  before  the  founder's  death.  In  1895, 
the  poet  issued  a  translation  of  Beowulf  which  was  not 
successful.  He  had  had  a  rather  serious  illness  in  1891, 
and  was  never  as  strong  afterward.  Twice  he  visited 
North  France  in  search  of  health,  but  was  not  able  to 
regain  his  old  vigour.  He  died  of  congestion  of  the 
lungs.  October  3,  1896,  in  his  sixty-third  year,  not  yet  an 
old  man,  but  with  a  record  of  work  accomplished  that 
would  not  shame  a  round  century  of  life. 

TEE  ARTIST. 

Such  are  the  bare  facts  of  the  life  of  the  man,  eloquent, 
in  themselves,  of  the  straightforwardness  of  mind,  the 
singleness  of  purpose,  the  tremendous  energy  and  ability 
which  characterized  him  in  every  action  and  thought ;  but 
they  need  to  be  illuminated  by  a  knowledge  of  his  multi- 
farious achievements  in  order  to  render  clearer  his  peculiar 
and  versatile  genius.  He  was  not  a  large  man  physically, 
but  his  small  body  was  robust  and  stored  full  of  con- 
densed vitality  and  potential  energy.  He  faced  life,  its 
joy  and  sorrow,  and  its  eternal  conflicts,  with  the  confi- 
dent eager  fatalism  of  a  Sea  King  of  the  Volsungs.  His 
great  head,  with  shaggy,  dark,  curling  hair  and  beard 
framing  the  oval  face,  sensitive  mouth  half-hidden  by 
silken  mustache,  wise,  dreaming  eyes,  and,  over  all  the 
magnificent  forehead,  wide  and  high  and  masculine, — 
this  was  the  real  index  of  his  character.  He  was  an 
independent  soul,  advised  sometimes,  but  always  going 
his  own  way  in  the  end,  with  a  masterful  certainty  that 
it  was  the  best  way  for  him.  In  like  manner,  he  was 
absolutely  honest  in  his  dealings  with  other  men,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  because  he  was  void  of  evil  motives  and, 
being  true  to  himself,  was  not  then  "false  to  any  man." 
As  an  artist,  he  was  like  a  gem  with  many  facets,  which 
is,  intrinsically,  of  so  fine  a  texture  that  no  one  of  these 
requires  much  artificial  polishing.  He  was  a  successful 
designer  of  furniture,  carpets,  hangings,  of  church  decora- 
tions ;  himself  a  maker  of  beautiful  tapestries,  both  woven 
and  embroidered,  a  master  in  the  dyeing  of  cloths,  a 
carver  of  wood  and  stone,  an  adept  in  the  making  of 


INTRODUCTION.  xxvil 

illuminated  manuscript  books,  an  expert  in  the  typography 
and  binding  of  printed  books,  a  writer  of  prose  romances 
that  are  absolutely  original  in  their  substance  and  fasci- 
nating in  style,  and  a  poet.  The  various  decorative  indus- 
tries he  raised  to  the  artistic  plane  by  the  success  with 
which  he  pursued  his  ideals ;  he  revived  the  art  of  book- 
making  which  had  fallen  into  oblivion;  in  poetry,  alone 
of  the  fine  arts,  he  was  eminent,  —  he  was  the  greatest 
narrative  poet  of  his  epoch.  Fundamental,  underlying 
all  these  abilities,  was  his  inherent  craftsmanship;  he 
was  skilled  by  divine  endowment,  deft-fingered,  deft- 
minded,  intuitively  keen  to  see  and  use  the  best  means 
for  making  a  beautiful  thing,  —  a  tapestry,  a  room,  or  a 
poem.  This  was  his  genius,  the  basis  of  his  achievement. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  guiding  and  inspiring  all  this 
intelligent  power,  elevating  mere  artisanship  into  genuine 
art,  informing  his  whole  life,  and  shaping  all  his  theories, 
was  the  artistic  impulse,  the  passion  for  making  a  beauti- 
ful thing.  It  was  his  dominant  motive,  in  every  branch 
of  activity,  and  turned  all  his  labour  into  pleasure.  Even 
his  Socialistic  theories  depended  upon  teaching  to  all  men 
this  same  impulse,  so  that  every  one  should  find  pleasure 
in  working.  The  man  was  an  artist  to  the  depths  of  his 
soul. 

The  keynote  to  his  art  was  mediaevalism.  Though  his 
work-a-day  interests  were  those  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
and  of  London,  and  he  felt  himself  irretrievably  of,  and 
in  sympathy  with,  the  London  artisans,  his  spirit  was 
surely  born  in  the  Middle  Ages,  and  then,  by  some  kindly 
whim  of  Providence,  withheld  from  incarnation  until  the 
Victorian  era.  He  felt  that  England  had  been  led  astray 
by  the  Renaissance,  from  the  path  of  artistic  development 
which  was  natural  and  right  for  a  Northern  race  to  follow, 
that  the  spirit  and  methods  of  Gothic  art,  whose  progress 
had  been  arrested  while  all  its  forms,  save  architecture, 
were  in  a  crude  state,  were  native  and  genuine,  and  all 
others  were  alien  and  artificial.  Therefore  his  admira- 
tion for  Gothic  architecture  amounted  to  a  passion,  and  he 
returned  to  the  Gothic  type  for  his  models  in  all  forms 
of  decoration.  In  painting  and  in  stained  glass,  his  par- 
ticular genius  lay  in  the  use  of  brilliant  and  varied  colour; 
his  eye  for  colour  was  marvellous,  always  superior  to 
his  sense  of  form.  When  he  came  to  typography,  he  based 


xxviii  INTRODUCTION. 

his  innovations  upon  a  study  of  the  old-time  Gothic  fonts ; 
and  in  poetry  he  was  preeminently  romantic,  both  in 
method  and  in  substance.  He  could  not  disregard  the 
wealth  of  beauty  in  the  Greek  mythology,  but  it  was  the 
more  romantic  story  that  appealed  to  him,  —  the  Odyssey 
rather  than  the  Iliad  ;  Jason,  Bellerophon,  Atalanta. 
Moreover  his  treatment  of  these  was  frankly  mediaeval 
in  tone  and  setting. 

THE  POET. 

"  If  a  chap  can't  compose  an  epic  poem  while  he 's  weav- 
ing tapestry,  he  had  better  shut  up ;  he  '11  never  do  any 
good  at  all."  This  unconventional  utterance  is  representa- 
tive of  William  Morris's  attitude  toward  the  art  of  poe- 
try. He  remarked  that  "all  this  talk  of  inspiration" 
was  "nonsense,"  and  he  regarded  writing  poetry  as  a 
craft,  pure  and  simple.  He  had  something  to  say ;  and 
to  say  it  in  the  most  beautiful  form  that  he  could  com- 
mand, was  a  matter  of  conscience  with  him.  He  worked 
at  it  with  his  mind,  honestly  and  seriously,  as  he  worked 
at  a  tapestry  with  his  fingers ;  and  he  was  naturally,  as 
has  been  said  before,  an  expert  craftsman.  The  swiftness 
with  which  he  composed  was  remarkable ;  he  produced, 
sometimes,  eight  hundred  lines  in  a  single  day,  when 
writing  The  Earthly  Paradise.  Yet,  in  spite  of  this,  he 
detested  the  business  of  correcting  and  remodelling  lines 
once  written,  and  would  rarely  do  it ;  his  verse,  however, 
is  never  slovenly, — he  was  too  good  a  workman  for  that. 
He  was,  in  general,  indifferent  to  published  criticism,  work- 
ing to  satisfy  his  own  taste  and  careless  of  the  approval 
or  disapproval  of  outsiders.  But  he  was  not  lazy  in  his 
workmanship.  When  the  long  prologue  to  The  Earthly 
Paradise  seemed  to  him  defective,  he  rewrote  the  whole 
of  it,  changing  its  form  completely. 

The  mechanics  of  his  versification  does  not  require 
much  comment.  He  did  not  deal  in  blank  verse,  except 
in  a  few  early  instances,  nor  in  rigid  foreign  metres  and 
stanzas.  He  was  fond  of  the  Middle  English  alliterative 
metres,  and  was  influenced  by  their  freedom  and  native 
power  in  no  inconsiderable  degree.  He  consciously  used 
the  unrhymed  verse  of  the  Pre-Elizabethan  dramatists  in 
Love  is  Enough;  but,  in  general,  he  preferred  the  iambic 


INTRODUCTION.  xxix 

measure,  with  four,  five,  six,  or  seven  beats  to  the  line, 
varying  the  foot,  however,  with  a  great  deal  of  freedom, 
thus  gaining  a  large  degree  of  flexibility.  Complications 
of  stanza  structure  are  avoided,  and  the  lines  usually 
rhyme  in  couplets  or  quatrains.  In  narrative  verse, 
which  is  his  characteristic  form,  the  length  of  the  stanza 
is  irregular,  governed  entirely  by  the  substance.  Among 
his  shorter  poems,  notably  in  the  Defence  of  Guenevere 
volume,  are  a  few  of  the  old  ballad  form,  with  the  trick 
of  repeating  lines  and  phrases,  \ised  very  effectively. 
But,  in  general,  his  genius  is  for  the  rhythmic  flow  of 
sustained  narrative  verse,  rather  than  for  any  small 
daintinesses  or  formalities.  His  ear,  true  as  it  was,  was 
attuned  to  great  and  simple  melodies,  rather  than  to  any 
complicated,  delicate  harmonies.  There  is  always  a  rug- 
gedness  about  his  verse,  a  sort  of  Viking  quality  that  is 
the  exact  opposite  of  prettiness.  It  shows  little  skill  in 
the  achievement  of  subtle  sound  effects,  but  it  has  a  vague, 
haunting  music  of  its  own,  in  the  mass,  —  a  note  of  mysti- 
cal pathos  that  is  not  merely  in  the  sentiment;  it  is  an  in- 
trinsic quality  of  the  verse.  His  diction  is  archaic,  always 
showing  a  strong  preference  for  words  long  native,  not 
shrinking  from  archaisms  that  are  obsolete ;  but  no  tinge 
of  affectation  spoils  the  flavour  of  antiquity  thus  imparted. 
It  was  natural  to  Morris.  He  thought  in  such  terms. 

It  is  a  commonplace  to  say  that  Morris  was  a  Pre- 
Raphaelite,  but  not  altogether  true.  He  was  sui  generis. 
Though  not  properly  a  member  of  the  Pre-Raphaelite 
brotherhood,  he  was  strongly  influenced  by  them.  His 
personal  friendship  for  Rossetti  and  Ford  Madox  Brown 
drew  him  completely  into  their  circle  for  a  time ;  and  even 
before  this,  his  youthful  enthusiasm  had  made  him  an 
ardent  worshipper  of  their  beliefs  and  achievements. 
But,  after  a  little,  he  took  his  own  way  again,  —  a  Pre- 
Raphaelite  in  his  careful  attention  to  detail,  his  love  for 
rich  and  complex  colour  and  design,  but  more  than  ever 
William  Morris.  This  careful  elaboration  of  detail  and 
colour  is  characteristic  of  his  poetry  always.  There  are 
certain  tricks  of  rhyme  which  he  has  in  common  with 
Rossetti,  —  particularly  a  fondness  for  long  e  rhymes,  and 
for  rhyming  -e  with  -ly.  And  he  had  the  same  belief  in 
the  beauty  of  the  great  range  of  human  emotions  in  all 
their  manifestations,  as  opposed  to  the  rigid  and  narrow 


xxx  INTRODUCTION. 

selection  of  art  subjects  which  marked  the  classical  schools 
of  the  day. 

He  said  of  himself  that  he  was  "  steeped  in  mediaeval- 
ism,"  and  that  he  was  influenced  most  by  the  Icelandic 
sagas,  the  English  and  Scotch  border  ballads,  and  Frois- 
sart  (in  Berners's  translation).  Also  he  called  Chaucer 
his  master,  because  from  Chaucer  he  received  the  inspira- 
tion to  narrative  poetry.  But  there  is  little  resemblance 
to  Chaucer  that  can  be  found  in  the  works  of  Morris, 
except  this  of  the  general  form,  and  the  constructive 
device  by  which  the  different  poems  of  T7ie  Earthly  Para- 
dise are  bound  together.  There  is  a  kinship  with  Keats 
sometimes  apparent,  notably  in  the  fanciful  elaboration 
of  figure  and  detail  with  which  Morris  loves  to  embroider 
his  narrative  at  every  turn.  He  attributed  to  Mrs. 
Browning  a  great  influence  over  his  first  poems,  most  of 
them  unpublished;  and  the  dramatic  romances  of  Robert 
Browning  have  plainly  shaped  the  method  of  many  of 
the  poems  in  his  first  volume.  But  all  these  factors  are 
insignificant  in  the  great  mass  of  his  work,  which  is 
essentially  his  own  in  method  and  in  execution. 

Most  of  the  different  bodies  of  myth  and  legend  which 
are  accessible  to  the  modern  scholar,  were  the  storehouse 
from  which  he  drew  his  material.  Not  Europe  alone,  but 
the  Persian  and  Arabian  romances,  paid  tribute  to  his 
power  of  assimilation  and  reproduction.  The  legends  of 
northern  Europe  interested  him  most,  however ;  and  he 
read  them  all  as  a  contemporary  of  Geoffrey  Chaucer,  so 
that  he  conceived  the  stories  in  the  frame  of  mind  which 
led  certain  old  Flemish  painters  to  picture  scriptural 
characters  with  the  costumes  and  scenery  of  Flanders  in 
the  time  of  Jacob  Van  Artevelde. 

The  earliest  volume  of  his  poetry,  The  Defence  of 
Guenevere,  drew  from  two  sources,  —  Malory's  Morte 
If Arthur  and  the  Chronicles  of  John  Froissart.  The 
volume  contains  many  crudities  of  versification,  many 
untrue  rhymes  and  faulty  rhythms,  many  harsh  sound- 
sequences,  but  not  a  line  that  is  insincere.  It  is  startling 
in  the  grim  honesty  with  which  it  reproduces  the 
mediaeval  world.  There  is  no  modernizing  of  sentiment 
as  in  Tennyson's  dealings  with  Malory's  legends,  nor  any 
glorification  of  chivalry  as  in  Walter  Scott,  but  a  relent- 
less, dramatic  expression  of  the  spirit  of  Froissart's  pages, 


INTRODUCTION.  xxxi 

pitilessly  human,  so  genuine  that  one  cannot  doubt  its 
truth.  Only  four  poems  in  the  volume  are  from  the 
Arthurian  legend,  —  The  Defence  of  Guenevere,  King 
Arthur's  Tomb,  The  Chapel  in  Lyonesse,  and  Galahad,  a 
Christmas  Mystery.  Of  these,  the  first  two  are  intensely 
dramatic.  The  method  is  a  mixture  of  narrative  and 
monologue.  The  soul  of  Guenevere  is  laid  bare  with  terri- 
ble truth  and  power,  and  the  writhing  human  passion  of 
the  lines  is  tremendous ;  and  for  this  central  figure  there 
is  supplied  indirectly  a  setting  and  background  of  the 
court  life  of  early  Britain,  with  an  interweaving  of 
motives  that  shows  no  small  power  of  dramatic  construc- 
tion. The  other  poems  in  the  volume  are  mostly  from 
Froissart,  some  relating  actual  incidents  from  his  pages, 
but  most  of  them  expressing  dramatically,  by  the  mono- 
logue or  informal  dialogue  method,  some  situation  typical 
of  life  in  the  period  of  the  long  struggle  between  France 
and  England  under  the  Plantagenets.  The  landscape  and 
the  people  come  straight  from  the  pages  of  the  old  canon ; 
and  the  grim,  reckless  hardihood  of  the  time,  its  treachery 
and  violence,  and  its  bravery,  are  all  preserved.  Some 
few  of  the  poems  are  altogether  of  Dreamland,  but  even 
of  these  the  mysticism  is  mediaeval ;  and  the  lyric  passion 
of  Praise  of  my  Lady  and  Summer  Dawn  belongs  to  the 
Middle  Ages.  Altogether,  the  book  is  a  wonderful  re- 
crudescence of  genuine  medisevalism.  It  is  uniquely 
romantic,  and  far  more  dramatic  than  TJie  Earthly  Para- 
dise. Its  freshness  and  genuineness  compensate  for  its 
faults  of  crudeness;  and,  since  Sir  Thomas  Malory,  no 
man  has  dealt  so  manfully  and  frankly  with  Guenevere 
and  Launcelot  and  Arthur,  as  this  young  poet  has. 

TJie  Life  and  Death  of  Jason,  coming  ten  years  later, 
displayed  a  considerable  change  in  the  poet's  balance  of 
powers.  The  crudeness  of  rhyme,  the  harsh  lines,  have 
disappeared.  With  them  has  gone  some  of  the  intense 
dramatic  power ;  but  the  poet  has  leaped  into  his  mas- 
tery of  the  narrative  form.  The  old  Greek  story  of  the 
Argonauts  is  elaborated  into  a  long  romantic  poem.  The 
narrative  is  adorned  with  pictures  rich  in  diverse  colours, 
carefully  wrought  in  every  minute  detail,  and  varied  with 
beautiful  lyrics.  In  spite  of  the  length  of  the  poem,  the 
interest  never  flags.  The  verse  is  strong  yet  flexible,  not 
fluid,  yet  sweeping  steadily  onward  like  a  wave  of  the 


xxxii  INTRODUCTION. 

sea,  bearing  the  burden  of  the  narrative  without  monot- 
ony and  without  effort.  As  for  the  tale  itself,  it  has  the 
familiar  Hellenic  properties  of  scenery  and  deities,  but 
they  are  seen  through  the  eyes  of  a  man  untouched  by 
the  Renaissance.  The  Colchian  River  bears  Flemish 
dromonds  on  its  stream,  and  the  strain  of  Northern  mel- 
ancholy runs  through  the  songs  of  Orpheus.  The  poet 
was  fond  of  fancying  that  a  direct  line  of  Greek  legend 
had  descended  through  the  Middle  Ages,  by  way  of  the 
Varangian  guards  of  the  Roman  emperors,  and  other 
wandering  Teutons  who  had  returned  to  their  Northern 
fastnesses  laden  with  the  mythology  of  pagan  Greece, 
and  he  coloured  Greek  stories  as  if  this  fancy  were  a 
fact. 

In  The  Earthly  Paradise,  which  was  published  very 
soon  after  The  Life  and  Death  of  Jason,  the  stories  that 
come  from  Greek  sources  are  treated  in  the  same  spirit 
as  are  those  that  come  from  German  and  French  romances 
of  the  mediaeval  period,  and  from  Oriental  sources ;  but 
in  the  tales  that  are  taken  from  the  Northern  mythology 
the  strong  influence  of  Icelandic  sagas  appears.  The 
spirit  of  The  Fostering  of  Aslaug  belongs  to  the  heroic 
days, — simpler,  less  mystical,  than  the  feudal  period;  and 
The  Lovers  of  Gudrun  is  pure  epic  in  spirit, — a  fine  render- 
ing of  the  magnificent  Laxdada  Saga.  This  growth  from 
the  romantic  to  the  epic  method  of  narrative  is  marked 
by  greater  directness,  and  a  distinct  'lessening  of  the 
mysticism  which  is  prevalent  in  the  purely  romantic 
tales,  such  as  Ogier  the  Dane.  The  characters  are  larger, 
more  heroic,  and  more  dramatically  human.  The  poet  is 
no  longer  looking  through  Gothic  windows  of  variegated 
hues ;  but  through  a  perfectly  clear  medium  he  sees  the 
primitive  world,  with  its  few  men  and  women  stirred  by 
the  elemental  passions  to  heroic  activities ;  and  this 
world  he  reproduces  faithfully  and  with  a  profound  sim- 
plicity that  is  closely  akin  to  the  spirit  of  the  saga  men 
themselves. 

This  epic  spirit,  apparent  even  in  some  of  the  late- 
written  Greek  stories  of  The  Earthly  Paradise,  culminated 
in  Sigurd  the  Volsung,  which  was  composed  at  a  time 
when  Morris  was  steeped  in  Icelandic  lore  and  associa- 
tions. This  is  no  mere  translation ;  it  is  the  story  of  the 
Volsunga  Saga  arranged  and  done  into  English  verse,  — 


INTRODUCTION.  xxxiii 

the  grandest  long  narrative  poem  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  The  poem  lacks  unity;  it  is  really  a  double 
epic,  —  the  story  of  Sigmund,  Sigurd's  father,  and  the 
story  of  Sigurd.  But,  in  spite  of  this  constructive  fault, 
the  power  of  the  poem  is  unfailing  from  beginning  to 
end.  Magnificent  fatalism,  profound  tragic  passages, 
and  heroic  achievements  abound ;  the  heroes  of  the  elder 
world  play  their  full  parts ;  Sigurd  and  Brynhild  are 
human  —  to  the  full  stature  of  demigods  ;  Grimhild  and 
Gudrun,  Gunnar  and  Hogni,  live  greatly  through  good  days 
and  evil,  or  die  heroically ;  and  over  all  the  strife,  and  the 
joy  and  sorrow,  the  greed,  the  hate,  the  love,  and  the  heroism, 
preside  the  stern  form  of  Woden,  "  All-Father,"  and  the 
dim  relentless  Norns :  all  this,  to  be  sure,  is  native  to 
the  story  ;  but  to  translate  it  into  the  living  English,  to 
render  it  into  verse  adequate  to  its  grandeur,  its  pathos, 
its  tragic  heroism,  —  this  is  a  poetic  achievement  of  very 
high  rank. 

The  metre  of  Sigurd  is  of  the  iambic  form,  seven 
stresses  to  the  line,  in  rhymed  couplets.  A  great  deal 
of  freedom  in  the  substitution  of  irregular  feet  gives 
flexibility  and  variety  to  the  sonorous  rhythm  which  is 
truly  heroic  in  its  diguity.  It  is  a  fit  vehicle  for  the 
great  epic  story,  and  does  not  fail  at  the  flame-ringed 
summit  of  Hindfell,  in  the  peaceful  beauty  of  Lyrndale, 
or  in  the  tumultuous  burg  of  the  Niblung  children;  the 
death  of  Brynhiln.  is  related  with  sublime  solemnity,  and 
the  brave  story  of  the  last  fight  of  the  Niblung  warriors, 
in  Atli's  hall,  is  splendidly,  gloriously  tragic. 

In  Sigurd,  the  poet  reached  the  summit  of  his  achieve- 
ment. The  story  inspired  him  to  his  greatest  success. 
His  story-telling  gift  thereafter  found  expression  in  prose 
romances  which  were  a  return  in  spirit  to  the  earlier 
days.  One  volume  of  poetry,  published  much  later,  was 
made  up  mostly  of  short  lyric  pieces.  Some  of  them  were 
rhymes  made  for  Socialist  songs  and  the  rest  collected 
from  various  sources  and  composed  at  different  periods 
of  his  activity.  There  is  no  new  note  struck.  The  one 
long  poem  in  the  volume,  Love  is  Enough,  had  been  pub- 
lished separately,  some  time  before. 

It  seems  beyond  question  that  Morris  must  be  ranked, 
as  a  poet,  by  The  Earthly  Paradise,  Jason,  and  Sigurd. 
The  fresh  dramatic  intensity  of  his  earliest  volume,  the 


xxxiv  INTRODUCTION. 

exquisite  beauty  and  the  haunting  melancholy  of  the 
lyrics  scattered  through  all  his  work,  —  these  are  slight 
compared  with  the  volume  arid  excellence  of  his  narrative 
poetry.  In  this  field  alone  he  is  first  of  the  Victorians. 
His  verse  is  not  always  smooth.  It  is  never  merry,  never 
humorous,  nor  ever  laboriously  playful ;  there  are  few 
single  lines  that  stick  in  one's  memory.  It  is  always 
dignified  and  serious,  full  of  colour  and  pictorial  detail, 
and  it  moves  with  a  breadth  of  sustained  power  that 
makes  it  peculiarly  fitted  for  the  telling  of  tales.  It  is 
frankly  Pagan,  in  spirit,  touched  with  the  haunting 
melancholy  of  the  Northern  races,  —  the  "Thought  of 
the  Otherwhere,"  that 

"  Waileth  weirdly  along  thro'  all  music  or  song 
From  a  Teuton's  voice  or  string." 

Yet  it  is  a  brave  melancholy,  a  heroic  pessimism,  — 

"There  dwelt  men  merry  hearted  and  in  hope  exceeding  great, 
Met  the  good  days  and  the  evil  as  they  went  the  way  of  fate." 

This  was  the  spirit  of  the  poet.  A  "dreamer  of 
dreams,"  he  called  himself  in  the  beautiful  Apology,  in 
the  beginning  of  The  Earthly  Paradise,  and  "the  idle 
singer  of  an  empty  day,"  both  here  and  in  the  intimately 
personal  L' Envoi;  he  felt  his  kinship  to  the  old  days, 
and  strove,  not  vainly,  to  reconstruct  their  beauty.  Nor 
is  it  an  idle  thing  to  have  drawn  together  the  world's 
beautiful  stories  and  told  them  in  enduring  verse  for  the 
delight  of  men.  He  was  sincere,  this  man,  and,  like  the 
Baresarks  of  old,  he  strove  to  the  last  day  of  his  life ; 
their  toil  was  war,  his  the  creation  of  beauty.  It  is  fit- 
ting to  close  with  the  words  of  his  biographer,  "  As  a 
poet  and  artist  ...  he  gave  his  best  to  the  world  quite 
simply,  without  ostentation  and  without  concealment; 
and  with  the  world,  as  a  still  living  influence,  what  was 
permanent  in  it  remains." 

PERCY  EGBERT  COL  WELL. 

LAWRENCBVIIXE,  N.J.,  Jan.  13,  1904. 


EAELY   ROMANTIC   POEMS. 


EARLY  ROMANTIC   POEMS.1 


THE  DEFENCE  OF  GUENEVEKE. 

BUT,  knowing  now  that  they  would  have  her  speak, 
She  threw  her  wet  hair  backward  from  her  brow, 
Her  hand  close  to  her  mouth  touching  her  cheek, 

As  though  she  had  had  there  a  shameful  blow, 
And  feeling  it  shameful  to  feel  ought  but  shame 
All  through  her  heart,  yet  felt  her  cheek  burned  so, 

She  must  a  little  touch  it ;  like  one  lame 

She  walked  away  from  Gauwaine,  with  her  head 

Still  lifted  up ;  and  on  her  cheek  of  flame 

The  tears  dried  quick ;  she  stopped  at  last  and  said : 
"  0  knights  and  lords,  it  seems  but  little  skill 
To  talk  of  well-known  things  past  now  and  dead. 

"  God  wot  I  ought  to  say,  I  have  done  ill, 

And  pray  you  all  forgiveness  heartily  ! 

Because  you  must  be  right,  such  great  lords ;  still 

"Listen,  suppose  your  time  were  come  to  die, 
And  you  were  quite  alone  and  very  weak ; 
Yea,  laid  a  dying  while  very  mightily 

"  The  wind  was  ruffling  up  the  narrow  streak 
Of  river  through  your  broad  lands  running  well : 
Suppose  a  hush  should  come,  then  some  one  speak : 


EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

"'One  of  these  cloths  is  heaven,  and  one  is  hell, 
Now  choose  one  cloth  for  ever ;  which  they  be, 
I  will  not  tell  you,  you  must  somehow  tell 

" '  Of  your  own  strength  and  mightiness ;  here,  see ! ' 
Yea,  yea,  my  lord,  and  you  to  ope  your  eyes, 
At  foot  of  your  familiar  bed  to  see 

"A  great  God's  angel  standing,  with  such  dyes, 
Not  known  on  earth,  on  his  great  wings,  and  hands, 
Held  out  two  ways,  light  from  the  inner  skies 

"  Showing  him  well,  and  making  his  commands 
Seem  to  be  God's  commands,  moreover,  too, 
Holding  within  his  hands  the  cloths  on  wands ; 

"  And  one  of  these  strange  choosing  cloths  was  blue, 
Wavy  and  long,  and  one  cut  short  and  red ; 
No  man  could  tell  the  better  of  the  two. 

"  After  a  shivering  half-hour  you  said, 

'  God  help !  heaven's  colour,  the  blue ; '  and  he  said. 

'Hell.' 
Perhaps  you  then  would  roll  upon  your  bed, 

"  And  cry  to  all  good  men  that  loved  you  well, 

'  Ah  Christ !  if  only  I  had  known,  known,  known ; ' 

Launcelot  went  away,  then  I  could  tell, 

"  Like  wisest  man  how  all  things  would  be,  moan, 
And  roll  and  hurt  myself,  and  long  to  die, 
And  yet  fear  much  to  die  for  what  was  sown. 

"  Nevertheless  you,  0  Sir  Gauwaine,  lie, 
Whatever  may  have  happened  through  these  years, 
God  knows  I  speak  truth,  saying  that  you  lie." 

Her  voice  was  low  at  first,  being  full  of  tears, 
But  as  it  cleared,  it  grew  full  loud  and  shrill, 
Growing  a  windy  shriek  in  all  men's  ears, 


THE  DEFENCE   OF  GUENEVERE. 

A  ringing  in  their  startled  brains,  until 

She  said  that  Gauwaine  lied,  then  her  voice  sunk, 

And  her  great  eyes  began  again  to  fill, 

Though  still  she  stood  right  up,  and  never  shrunk, 
But  spoke  on  bravely,  glorious  lady  fair ! 
Whatever  tears  her  full  lips  may  have  drunk, 

She  stood,  and  seemed  to  think,  and  wrung  her  hair, 
Spoke  out  at  last  with  no  more  trace  of  shame, 
With  passionate  twisting  of  her  body  there : 

"  It  chanced  upon  a  day  that  Launcelot  came 
To  dwell  at  Arthur's  court :  at  Christmas-tiine 
This  happened ;  when  the  heralds  sung  his  name, 

" '  Son  of  King  Ban  of  Benwick,'  seemed  to  chime 
Along  with  all  the  bells  that  rang  that  day, 
O'er  the  white  roofs,  with  little  change  of  rhyme. 

"  Christmas  and  whitened  Winter  passed  away, 
And  over  me  the  April  sunshine  came, 
Made  very  awful  with  black  hail-clouds,  yea 

"And  in  the  Summer  I  grew  white  with  flame, 
And  bowed  my  head  down  —  Autumn,  and  the  sick 
Sure  knowledge  things  would  never  be  the  same, 

"  However  often  Spring  might  be  most  thick 
Of  blossoms  and  buds,  smote  on  me,  and  I  grew 
Careless  of  most  things,  let  the  clock  tick,  tick, 

"  To  my  unhappy  pulse,  that  beat  right  through, 
My  eager  body ;  while  I  laughed  out  loud, 
And  let  my  lips  curl  up  at  false  or  true, 

"  Seemed  cold  and  shallow  without  any  cloud. 
Behold,  my  judges,  then  the  cloths  were  brought: 
While  I  was  dizzied  thus,  old  thoughts  would  crowd, 

"  Belonging  to  the  time  ere  I  was  bought 
By  Arthur's  great  name  and  his  little  love, 
Must  I  give  up  for  ever  then,  I  thought, 


EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

"  That  which  I  deemed  would  ever  round  me  move 
Glorifying  all  things ;  for  a  little  word, 
Scarce  ever  meant  at  all,  must  I  now  prove 

"  Stone-cold  for  ever  ?    Pray  you,  does  the  Lord 
Will  that  all  folks  should  be  quite  happy  and  good  ? 
I  love  God  now  a  little,  if  this  cord 

"  Were  broken,  once  for  all  what  striving  could 
Make  me  love  anything  in  earth  or  heaven  ? 
So  day  by  day  it  grew,  as  if  one  should 

"  Slip  slowly  down  some  path  worn  smooth  and  even, 

Down  to  a  cool  sea  on  a  summer  day ; 

Yet  still  in  slipping  there  was  some  small  leaven 

"  Of  stretched  hands  catching  small  stones  by  the  way, 

Until  one  surely  reached  the  sea  at  last, 

And  felt  strange  new  joy  as  the  worn  head  lay 

"  Back,  with  the  hair  like  sea- weed  ;  yea  all  past 
Sweat  of  the  forehead,  dryness  of  the  lips, 
Washed  utterly  out  by  the  dear  waves  o'ercast, 

"  In  the  lone  sea,  far  off  from  any  ships ! 
Do  I  not  know  now  of  a  day  in  Spring  ? 
No  minute  of  that  wild  day  ever  slips 

"  From  out  my  memory ;  I  hear  thrushes  sing, 
And  wheresoever  I  may  be,  straightway 
Thoughts  of  it  all  come  up  with  most  fresh  sting : 

"  I  was  half  mad  with  beauty  on  that  day, 

And  went  without  my  ladies  all  alone, 

In  a  quiet  garden  walled  round  every  way ; 

"I  was  right  joyful  of  that  wall  of  stone, 

That  shut  the  flowers  and  trees  up  with  the  sky, 

And  trebled  all  the  beauty :  to  the  bone, 

"  Yea  right  through  to  my  heart,  grown  very  shy 
With  weary  thoughts,  it  pierced,  and  made  me  glad ; 
Exceedingly  glad,  and  I  knew  verily, 


THE   DEFENCE   OF  GUENEVERE.  7 

"  A  little  thing  just  then  had  made  me  mad ; 
I  dared  not  think,  as  I  was  wont  to  do, 
Sometimes,  upon  my  beauty ;  if  I  had 

"  Held  out  my  long  hand  up  against  the  blue, 
And,  looking  on  the  tenderly  darken'd  fingers, 
Thought  that  by  rights  one  ought  to  see  quite  through, 

"  There,  see  you,  where  the  soft  still  light  yet  lingers, 
Kound  by  the  edges ;  what  should  I  have  done, 
If  this  had  joined  with  yellow  spotted  singers, 

"  And  startling  green  drawn  upward  by  the  sun  ? 
But  shouting,  loosed  out,  see  now  !  all  my  hair, 
And  trancedly  stood  watching  the  west  wind  run 

"  With  faintest  half-heard  breathing  sound — why  there 
I  lose  my  head  e'en  now  in  doing  this ; 
But  shortly  listen  —  In  that  garden  fair 

"  Came  Launcelot  walking  ;  this  is  true,  the  kiss 
Wherewith  we  kissed  in  meeting  that  spring  day, 
I  scarce  dare  talk  of  the  remember'd  bliss, 

"  When  both  our  mouths  went  wandering  in  one  way, 
And  aching  sorely,  met  among  the  leaves  ; 
Our  hands  being  left  behind  strained  far  away. 

"  Never  within  a  yard  of  my  bright  sleeves 
Had  Launcelot  come  before  —  and  now,  so  nigh ! 
After  that  day  why  is  it  Guenevere  grieves  ? 

"Nevertheless  you,  0  Sir  Gauwaine,  lie, 
Whatever  happened  on  through  all  those  years, 
God  knows  I  speak  truth,  saying  that  you  lie. 

"  Being  such  a  lady  could  I  weep  these  tears 
If  this  were  true  ?  A  great  queen  such  as  I 
Having  sinn'd  this  way,  straight  her  conscience  sears ; 

"  And  afterwards  she  liveth  hatefully, 
Slaying  and  poisoning,  certes  never  weeps,  — 
Gauwaine  be  friends  now,  speak  me  lovingly. 


8  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

"  Do  I  not  see  how  God's  dear  pity  creeps 

All  through  your  frame,  and  trembles  in  your  mouth  ? 

Eemember  in  what  grave  your  mother  sleeps, 

"  Buried  in  some  place  far  down  in  the  south, 
Men  are  forgetting  as  I  speak  to  you ; 
By  her  head  sever'd  in  that  awful  drouth 

"  Of  pity  that  drew  Agravaine's  fell  blow  ; 
I  pray  your  pity !  let  me  not  scream  out 
For  ever  after,  when  the  shrill  winds  blow 

"  Through  half  your  castle-locks !  let  me  not  shout 
For  ever  after  in  the  winter  night 
When  you  ride  out  alone  !  in  battle-rout 

"  Let  not  my  rusting  tears  make  your  sword  light ! 
Ah !  God  of  mercy,  how  he  turns  away ! 
So,  ever  must  I  dress  me  to  the  fight, 

"  So  —  let  God's  justice  work !  Gauwaine,  I  say, 
See  me  hew  down  your  proofs :  yea  all  men  know 
Even  as  you  said  how  Mellyagraunce  one  day, 

"  One  bitter  day  in  la,  Fausse  Garde,  for  so 

All  good  knights  held  it  after,  saw  — 

Yea,  sirs,  by  cursed  unknightly  outrage ;  though 

"  You,  Gauwaine,  held  his  word  without  a  flaw, 
This  Mellyagraunce  saw  blood  upon  my  bed  — 
Whose  blood  then  pray  you  ?  is  there  any  law 

"  To  make  a  queen  say  why  some  spots  of  red 

Lie  on  her  coverlet  ?  or  will  you  say 

'  Your  hands  are  white,  lady,  as  when  you  wed, 

" 'Where  did  you  bleed?'  and  must  I  stammer  out  'Nay, 

I  blush  indeed,  fair  lord,  only  to  rend 

My  sleeve  up  to  my  shoulder,  where  there  lay 

" (  A  knife-point  last  night : '  so  must  I  defend 

The  honour  of  the  Lady  Guenevere  ? 

Not  so,  fair  lords,  even  if  the  world  should  end 


THE  DEFENCE   OF  GUENEVERE. 

"  This  very  day,  and  you  were  judges  here 
Instead  of  God.     Did  you  see  Mellyagraunce 
When  Launcelot  stood  by  him  ?  what  white  fear 

"  Curdled  his  blood,  and  how  his  teeth  did  dance, 
His  side  sink  in  ?  as  my  knight  cried  and  said, 
f  Slayer  of  unarm'd  men,  here  is  a  chance ! 

" '  Setter  of  traps,  I  pray  you  guard  your  head, 
By  God  I  am  so  glad  to  tight  with  you, 
Stripper  of  ladies,  that  my  hand  feels  lead 

" '  For  driving  weight ;  hurrah  now !  draw  and  do, 
For  all  my  wounds  are  moving  in  my  breast, 
And  I  am  getting  mad  with  waiting  so.' 

"  He  struck  his  hands  together  o'er  the  beast, 
Who  fell  down  flat,  and  grovel  I'd  at  his  feet, 
And  groan'd  at  being  slain  so  young  — '  at  least,' 

"  My  knight  said,  '  Eise  you,  sir,  who  are  so  fleet 
At  catching  ladies,  half-arm'd  will  I  fight, 
My  left  side  all  uncovered ! '  then  I  weet, 

"  Up  sprang  Sir  Mellyagraunce  with  great  delight 
Upon  his  knave's  face ;  not  until  just  then 
Did  I  quite  hate  him,  as  I  saw  my  knight 

"  Along  the  lists  look  to  my  stake  and  pen 
With  such  a  joyous  smile,  it  made  me  sigh 
From  agony  beneath  my  waist-chain,  when 

"The  fight  began,  and  to  me  they  drew  nigh; 
Ever  Sir  Launcelot  kept  him  on  the  right, 
And  traversed  warily,  and  ever  high 

"  And  fast  leapt  caitiff's  sword,  until  my  knight 
Sudden  threw  up  his  sword  to  his  left  hand, 
Caught  it,  and  swung  it ;  that  was  all  the  fight, 

"  Except  a  spout  of  blood  on  the  hot  land  ; 

For  it  was  hottest  summer ;  and  I  know 

I  wonder'd  how  the  fire,  while  I  should  stand, 


10  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

"  And  burn,  against  the  heat,  would  quiver  so, 
Yards  above  my  head ;  thus  these  matters  went : 
Which  things  were  only  warnings  of  the  woe 

"  That  fell  on  me.     Yet  Mellyagraunce  was  shent, 
For  Mellyagraunce  had  fought  against  the  Lord ; 
Therefore,  my  lords,  take  heed  lest  you  be  blent 

"  With  all  this  wickedness ;  say  no  rash  word 
Against  me,  being  so  beautiful ;  my  eyes, 
Wept  all  away  the  grey,  may  bring  some  sword 

"  To  drown  you  in  your  blood ;  see  my  breast  rise, 
Like  waves  of  purple  sea,  as  here  I  stand ; 
And  how  my  arms  are  moved  in  wonderful  wise, 

"  Yea  also  at  my  full  heart's  strong  command, 
See  through  my  long  throat  how  the  words  go  up 
In  ripples  to  my  mouth ;  how  in  my  hand 

"  The  shadow  lies  like  wine  within  a  cup 
Of  marvellously  colour'd  gold ;  yea  now 
This  little  wind  is  rising,  look  you  up, 

"  And  wonder  how  the  light  is  falling  so 
Within  my  moving  tresses :  will  you  dare, 
When  you  have  looked  a  little  on  my  brow, 

"  To  say  this  thing  is  vile  ?  or  will  you  care 
For  any  plausible  lies  of  cunning  woof, 
When  you  can  see  my  face  with  no  lie  there 

"  For  ever  ?  am  I  not  a  gracious  proof  — 

'  But  in  your  chamber  Launcelot  was  found '  — 

Is  there  a  good  knight  then  would  stand  aloof, 

"  When  a  queen  says  with  gentle  queenly  sound : 
(  0  true  as  steel  come  now  and  talk  with  me, 
I  love  to  see  your  step  upon  the  ground 

" '  Unwavering,  also  well  I  love  to  see 

That  gracious  smile  light  up  your  face,  and  hear 

Your  wonderful  words,  that  all  mean  verily 


THE  DEFENCE   OF  GUENEVERE.  11 

" « The  thing  they  seem  to  mean :  good  friend,  so  dear 

To  me  in  everything,  come  here  to-night, 

Or  else  the  hours  will  pass  most  dull  and  drear ; 

" '  If  you  come  not,  I  fear  this  time  I  might 
Get  thinking  over  much  of  times  gone  by, 
When  I  was  young,  and  green  hope  was  in  sight : 

" '  For  no  man  cares  now  to  know  why  I  sigh ; 
And  no  man  comes  to  sing  me  pleasant  songs, 
Nor  any  brings  me  the  sweet  flowers  that  lie 

" '  So  thick  in  the  gardens ;  therefore  one  so  longs 

To  see  you,  Launcelot ;  that  we  may  be 

Like  children  once  again,  free  from  all  wrongs 

" '  Just  for  one  night.'     Did  he  not  come  to  me  ? 

What  thing  could  keep  true  Launcelot  away 

If  I  said,  '  Come  ? '  there  was  one  less  than  three 

"  In  my  quiet  room  that  night,  and  we  were  gay ; 
Till  sudden  I  rose  up,  weak,  pale,  and  sick, 
Because  a  bawling  broke  our  dream  up,  yea 

"  I  looked  at  Launcelot's  face  and  could  not  speak, 
For  he  looked  helpless  too,  for  a  little  while ; 
Then  I  remember  how  I  tried  to  shriek, 

"  And  could  not,  but  fell  down ;  from  tile  to  tile 
The  stones  they  threw  up  rattled  o'er  my  head 
And  made  me  dizzier ;  till  within  a  while 

"  My  maids  were  all  about  me,  and  my  head 
On  Launcelot's  breast  was  being  soothed  away 
From  its  white  chattering,  until  Launcelot  said  — 

"  By  God !  I  will  not  tell  you  more  to-day, 
Judge  any  way  you  will  —  what  matters  it  ? 
You  know  quite  well  the  story  of  that  fray, 

"  How  Launcelot  still'd  their  bawling,  the  mad  fit 

That  caught  up  Gauwaine  —  all,  all,  verily, 

But  just  that  which  would  save  me ;  these  things  flit. 


12  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

"Nevertheless  you,  0  Sir  Gauwaine,  lie, 
Whatever  may  have  happen'd  these  long  years, 
God  knows  I  speak  truth,  saying  that  you  lie ! 

"  All  I  have  said  is  truth,  by  Christ's  dear  tears." 
She  would  not  speak  another  word,  but  stood 
Turn'd  sideways ;  listening,  like  a  man  who  hears 

His  brother's  trumpet  sounding  through  the  wood 

Of  his  foes'  lances.     She  lean'd  eagerly, 

And  gave  a  slight  spring  sometimes,  as  she  could 

At  last  hear  something  really;  joyfully 

Her  cheek  grew  crimson,  as  the  headlong  speed 

Of  the  roan  charger  drew  all  men  to  see, 

The  knight  who  came  was  Launcelot  at  good  need. 


KING  ARTHUR'S  TOMB.2 

HOT  August  noon  —  already  on  that  day 

Since  sunrise  through  the  Wiltshire  downs,  most  sad 
Of  mouth  and  eye,  he  had  gone  leagues  of  way ; 

Ay  and  by  night,  till  whether  good  or  bad 

He  was,  he  knew  not,  though  he  knew  perchance 
That  he  was  Launcelot,  the  bravest  knight 

Of  all  who  since  the  world  was,  have  borne  lance, 
Or  swung  their  swords  in  wrong  cause  or  in  right. 

Nay,  he  knew  nothing  now,  except  that  where 

The  Glastonbury  gilded  towers  shine, 
A  lady  dwelt,  whose  name  was  Guenevere ; 

This  he  knew  also ;  that  some  fingers  twine, 

Not  only  in  a  man's  hair,  even  his  heart, 

(Making  him  good  or  bad  I  mean,)  but  in  his  life, 

Skies,  earth,  men's  looks  and  deeds,  all  that  has  part, 
Not  being  ourselves,  in  that  half-sleep,  half-strife, 


KING  ARTHUR'S   TOMB.  13 

(Strange  sleep,  strange  strife,)  that  men  call  living ;  so 
Was  Launcelot  most  glad  when  the  moon  rose, 

Because  it  brought  new  memories  of  her  —  "  Lo, 
Between  the  trees  a  large  moon,  the  wind  lows 

"  Not  loud,  but  as  a  cow  begins  to  low, 

Wishing  for  strength  to  make  the  herdsman  hear: 

The  ripe  corn  gathereth  dew ;  yea,  long  ago, 
In  the  old  garden  life,  my  Guenevere 

"  Loved  to  sit  still  among  the  flowers,  till  night 
Had  quite  come  on,  hair  loosen'd,  for  she  said, 

Smiling  like  heaven,  that  its  fairness  might 
Draw  up  the  wind  sooner  to  cool  her  head. 

"  Now  while  I  ride  how  quick  the  moon  gets  small, 

As  it  did  then  —  I  tell  myself  a  tale 
That  will  not  last  beyond  the  whitewashed  wall, 

Thoughts  of  some  joust  must  help  me  through  the  vale, 

"  Keep  this  till  after  —  How  Sir  Gareth  ran 
A  good  course  that  day  under  my  Queen's  eyes, 

And  how  she  sway'd  laughing  at  Dinadan  — 
No  —  back  again,  the  other  thoughts  will  rise, 

"  And  yet  I  think  so  fast 't  will  end  right  soon  — 

Verily  then  I  think,  that  Guenevere, 
Made  sad  by  dew  and  wind,  and  tree-barred  moon, 

Did  love  me  more  than  ever,  was  more  dear 

"To  me  than  ever,  she  would  let  me  lie 

And  kiss  her  feet,  or,  if  I  sat  behind, 
Would  drop  her  hand  and  arm  most  tenderly, 

And  touch  my  mouth.     And  she  would  let  me  wind 

"  Her  hair  around  my  neck,  so  that  it  fell 
Upon  my  red  robe,  strange  in  the  twilight 

With  many  unnamed  colours,  till  the  bell 
Of  her  mouth  on  my  cheek  sent  a  delight 

"  Through  all  my  ways  of  being ;  like  the  stroke 
Wherewith  God  threw  all  men  upon  the  face 

When  he  took  Enoch,  and  when  Enoch  woke 
With  a  changed  body  in  the  happy  place. 


14  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

"  Once,  I  remember,  as  I  sat  beside, 

She  turn'd  a  little,  and  laid  back  her  head, 

And  slept  upon  my  breast ;  I  almost  died 

In  those  night-watches  with  my  love  and  dread, 

"  There  lily-like  she  bow'd  her  head  and  slept, 
And  I  breathed  low,  and  did  not  dare  to  move, 

But  sat  and  quiver' d  inwardly,  thoughts  crept, 
And  frighten'd  me  with  pulses  of  my  Love. 

"  The  stars  shone  out  above  the  doubtful  green 
Of  her  bodice,  in  the  green  sky  overhead ; 

Pale  in  the  green  sky  were  the  stars  I  ween, 
Because  the  moon  shone  like  a  star  she  shed 

"  When  she  dwelt  up  in  heaven  a  while  ago, 

And  ruled  all  things  but  God :  the  night  went  on, 

The  wind  grew  cold,  and  the  white  moon  grew  low, 
One  hand  had  fallen  down,  and  now  lay  on 

"  My  cold  stiff  palm  ;  there  were  no  colours  then 

For  near  an  hour,  and  I  fell  asleep 
In  spite  of  all  my  striving,  even  when 

I  held  her  whose  name-letters  make  me  leap. 

"  I  did  not  sleep  long,  feeling  that  in  sleep 
I  did  some  loved  one  wrong,  so  that  the  sun 

Had  only  just  arisen  from  the  deep 

Still  land  of  colours,  when  before  me  one 

"  Stood  whom  I  knew,  but  scarcely  dared  to  touch, 
She  seemed  to  have  changed  so  in  the  night ; 

Moreover  she  held  scarlet  lilies,  such 

As  Maiden  Margaret  bears  upon  the  light 

"  Of  the  great  church  walls,  natheless  did  I  walk 

Through  the  fresh  wet  woods,  and  the  wheat  that  morn, 

Touching  her  hair  and  hand  and  mouth,  and  talk 
Of  love  we  held,  nigh  hid  among  the  corn. 

"  Back  to  the  palace,  ere  the  sun  grew  high, 
We  went,  and  in  a  cool  green  room  all  day 

I  gazed  upon  the  arras  giddily, 

Where  the  wind  set  the  silken  kings  a-sway. 


KING  ARTHUR'S   TOMB.  15 

"I  could  not  hold  her  hand,  or  see  her  face; 

For  which  may  God  forgive  me !  but  I  think, 
Howsoever,  that  she  was  not  in  that  place." 

These  memories  Launcelot  was  quick  to  drink ; 

And  when  these  fell,  some  paces  past  the  wall, 
There  rose  yet  others,  but  they  wearied  more, 

And  tasted  not  so  sweet ;  they  did  not  fall 

So  soon,  but  vaguely  wrenched  his  strained  heart  sore 

In  shadowy  slipping  from  his  grasp :  these  gone, 
A  longing  followed ;  if  he  might  but  touch 

That  Guenevere  at  once !     Still  night,  the  lone 
Grey  horse's  head  before  him  vex'd  him  much, 

In  steady  nodding  over  the  grey  road  — 

Still  night,  and  night,  and  night,  and  emptied  heart 

Of  any  stories ;  what  a  dismal  load 

Time  grew  at  last,  yea,  when  the  night  did  part, 

And  let  the  sun  flame  over  all,  still  there 

The  horse's  grey  ears  turn'd  this  way  and  that, 

And  still  he  watch' d  them  twitching  in  the  glare 
Of  the  morning  sun,  behind  them  still  he  sat, 

Quite  wearied  out  with  all  the  wretched  night, 

Until  about  the  dustiest  of  the  day, 
On  the  last  down's  brow  he  drew  his  rein  in  sight 

Of  the  Glastonbury  roofs  that  choke  the  way. 

And  he  was  now  quite  giddy  as  before, 

When  she  slept  by  him,  tired  out,  and  her  hair 

Was  mingled  with  the  rushes  on  the  floor, 
And  he,  being  tired  too,  was  scarce  aware 

Of  her  presence;  yet  as  he  sat  and  gazed, 
A  shiver  ran  throughout  him,  and  his  breath 

Came  slower,  he  seem'd  suddenly  amazed, 

As  though  he  had  not  heard  of  Arthur's  death. 

This  for  a  moment  only,  presently 

He  rode  on  giddy  still,  until  he  reach'd 
A  place  of  apple-trees,  by  the  thorn-tree 

Wherefrom  St.  Joseph  in  the  days  past  preached. 


16  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

Dazed  there  he  laid  his  head  upon  a  toinb, 
Not  knowing  it  was  Arthur's,  at  which  sight 

One  of  her  maidens  told  her,  "  He  is  come," 
And  she  went  forth  to  meet  him ;  yet  a  blight 

Had  settled  on  her,  all  her  robes  were  black, 
With  a  long  white  veil  only ;  she  went  slow, 

As  one  walks  to  be  slain,  her  eyes  did  lack 
Half  her  old  glory,  yea,  alas !  the  glow 

Had  left  her  face  and  hands ;  this  was  because 
As  she  lay  last  night  on  her  purple  bed, 

Wishing  for  morning,  grudging  every  pause 

Of  the  palace  clocks,  until  that  Launcelot's  head 

Should  lie  on  her  breast,  with  all  her  golden  hair 
Each  side  —  when  suddenly  the  thing  grew  drear, 

In  morning  twilight,  when  the  grey  downs  bare 
Grew  into  lumps  of  sin  to  Guenevere. 

At  first  she  said  no  word,  but  lay  quite  still, 
Only  her  mouth  was  open,  and  her  eyes 

Gazed  wretchedly  about  from  hill  to  hill ; 

As  though  she  asked,  not  with  so  much  surprise 

As  tired  disgust,  what  made  them  stand  up  there 
So  cold  and  grey.  After,  a  spasm  took 

Her  face,  and  all  her  frame,  she  caught  her  hair, 
All  her  hair,  in  both  hands,  terribly  she  shook, 

And  rose  till  she  was  sitting  in  the  bed, 

Set  her  teeth  hard,  and  shut  her  eyes  and  seem'd 

As  though  she  would  have  torn  it  from  her  head, 
Natheless  she  dropp'd  it,  lay  down,  as  she  deem'd 

It  matter'd  not  whatever  she  might  do  — 
0  Lord  Christ !  pity  on  her  ghastly  face ! 

Those  dismal  hours  while  the  cloudless  blue 
Drew  the  sun  higher  —  He  did  give  her  grace ; 

Because  at  last  she  rose  up  from  her  bed, 
And  put  her  raiment  on,  and  knelt  before 

The  blessed  rood,  and  with  her  dry  lips  said, 
Muttering  the  words  against  the  marble  floor : 


KING  ARTHUR'S   TOMB.  17 

"  Unless  you  pardon,  what  shall  I  do,  Lord, 
But  go  to  hell  ?  and  there  see  day  by  day 

Foul  deed  on  deed,  hear  foulest  word  on  word, 
For  ever  and  ever,  such  as  on  the  way 

"  To  Camelot  I  heard  once  from  a  churl, 
That  curled  me  up  upon  my  jennet's  neck 

With  bitter  shame;  how  then,  Lord,  should  I  curl 
For  ages  and  for  ages  ?  dost  thou  reck 

"  That  I  am  beautiful,  Lord,  even  as  you 
And  your  dear  mother  ?  why  did  I  forget 

You  were  so  beautiful,  and  good,  and  true, 
That  you  loved  me  so,  Guenevere  ?     0  yet 

"  If  even  I  go  to  hell,  I  cannot  choose 

But  love  you,  Christ,  yea,  though  I  cannot  keep 

From  loving  Launcelot ;  O  Christ !  must  I  lose 
My  own  heart's  love  ?  see,  though  I  cannot  weep, 

"  Yet  am  I  very  sorry  for  my  sin ; 

Moreover,  Christ,  I  cannot  bear  that  hell, 
I  am  most  fain  to  love  you,  and  to  win 

A  place  in  heaven  some  time  —  I  cannot  tell  — 

"  Speak  to  me,  Christ !  I  kiss,  kiss,  kiss  your  feet ; 

Ah !  now  I  weep !  "  —  The  maid  said,  "By  the  tomb 
He  waiteth  for  you,  lady,"  coming  fleet, 

Not  knowing  what  woe  filled  up  all  the  room. 

So  Guenevere  rose  and  went  to  meet  him  there, 

He  did  not  hear  her  coming,  as  he  lay 
On  Arthur's  head,  till  some  of  her  long  hair 

Brush'd  on  the  new-cut  stone —  "  Well  done !  to  pray 

"  For  Arthur,  my  dear  lord,  the  greatest  king 
That  ever  lived."     "  Guenevere !  Guenevere ! 

Do  you  not  know  me,  are  you  gone  mad  ?  fling 
Your  arms  and  hair  about  me,  lest  I  fear 

"  You  are  not  Guenevere,  but  some  other  thing." 
"  Pray  you  forgive  me,  fair  lord  Launcelot ! 

I  am  not  mad,  but  I  am  sick ;  they  cling, 
God's  curses,  unto  such  as  I  am ;  not 


18  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

"Ever  again  shall  we  twine  arms  and  lips." 
"  Yea,  she  is  mad :  thy  heavy  law,  0  Lord, 

Is  very  tight  about  her  now,  and  grips 
Her  poor  heart,  so  that  no  right  word 

"  Can  reach  her  mouth ;  so,  Lord,  forgive  her  now, 
That  she  not  knowing  what  she  does,  being  mad, 

Kills  me  in  this  way  —  Guenevere,  bend  low 
And  kiss  me  once !  for  God's  love  kiss  me !  sad 

"  Though  your  face  is,  you  look  much  kinder  now ; 

Yea  once,  once  for  the  last  time  kiss  me,  lest  I  die." 
"  Christ !  my  hot  lips  are  very  near  his  brow, 

Help  me  to  save  his  soul !  —  Yea,  verily, 

"  Across  my  husband's  head,  fair  Launcelot ! 

Fair  serpent  mark'd  with  V  upon  the  head  ! 
This  thing  we  did  while  yet  he  was  alive, 

Why  not,  0  twisting  knight,  now  he  is  dead  ? 

"  Yea,  shake !  shake  now  and  shiver !  if  you  can 

Remember  anything  for  agony, 
Pray  you  remember  how  when  the  wind  ran 

One  cool  spring  evening  through  fair  aspen-tree, 

"  And  elm  and  oak  about  the  palace  there, 
The  king  came  back  from  battle,  and  I  stood 

To  meet  him,  with  my  ladies,  on  the  stair, 

My  face  made  beautiful  with  my  young  blood." 

"  Will  she  lie  now,  Lord  God  ?  "  "  Eemember  too, 
Wrung  heart,  how  first  before  the  knights  there  came 

A  royal  bier,  hung  round  with  green  and  blue, 
About  it  shone  great  tapers  with  sick  flame. 

"And  thereupon  Lucius,  the  Emperor, 

Lay  royal-robed,  but  stone-cold  now  and  dead, 

Not  able  to  hold  sword  or  sceptre  more, 

But  not  quite  grim ;  because  his  cloven  head 

"Bore  no  marks  now  of  Launcelot's  bitter  sword, 
Being  by  embalmers  deftly  solder'd  up ; 

So  still  it  seem'd  the  face  of  a  great  lord, 
Being  mended  as  a  craftsman  mends  a  cup. 


KING  ARTHUR'S   TOMB.  19 

"  Also  the  heralds  sung  rejoicingly 

To  their  long  trumpets  ;  '  Fallen  under  shield, 

Here  lieth  Lucius,  King  of  Italy, 

Slain  by  Lord  Launcelot  in  open  field.' 

"  Thereat  the  people  shouted  l  Launcelot ! ' 

And  through  the  spears  I  saw  you  drawing  nigh, 

You  and  Lord  Arthur  —  nay,  I  saw  you  not, 
But  rather  Arthur,  God  would  not  let  die, 

"  I  hoped,  these  many  years ;  he  should  grow  great, 

And  in  his  great  arms  still  encircle  me, 
Kissing  my  face,  half  blinded  with  the  heat 

Of  king's  love  for  the  queen  I  used  to  be. 

"  Launcelot,  Launcelot,  why  did  he  take  your  hand, 
When  he  had  kissed  me  in  his  kingly  way  ? 

Saying,  '  This  is  the  knight  whom  all  the  land 
Calls  Arthur's  banner,  sword,  and  shield  to-day ; 

" '  Cherish  him,  love.'    Why  did  your  long  lips  cleave 
In  such  strange  way  unto  my  fingers  then  ? 

So  eagerly  glad  to  kiss,  so  loath  to  leave 

When  you  rose  up  ?     Why  among  helmed  men 

"Could  I  always  tell  you  by  your  long  strong  arms, 
And  sway  like  an  angel's  in  your  saddle  there  ? 

Why  sicken'd  I  so  often  with  alarms 

Over  the  tilt-yard  ?    Why  were  you  more  fair 

"  Than  aspens  in  the  autumn  at  their  best  ? 

Why  did  you  fill  all  lands  with  your  great  fame, 
So  that  Breuse  even,  as  he  rode,  fear'd  lest 

At  turning  of  the  way  your  shield  should  flame  ? 

"  Was  it  nought  then,  my  agony  and  strife  ? 

When  as  day  passed  by  day,  year  after  year, 
I  found  I  could  not  live  a  righteous  life ! 

Didst  ever  think  queens  held  their  truth  for  dear  ? 

"  O,  but  your  lips  say,  « Yea,  but  she  was  cold 
Sometimes,  always  uncertain  as  the  spring ; 

When  I  was  sad  she  would  be  overbold, 

Longing  for  kisses ; '  when  war-bells  did  ring, 


20        EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

"The  back-toll'd  bells  of  noisy  Camelot"  — 
"  Now,  Lord  God,  listen !  listen,  Guenevere, 

Though  I  am  weak  just  now,  I  think  there  's  not 
A  man  who  dares  to  say,  '  You  hated  her, 

" '  And  left  her  moaning  while  you  fought  your  fill 
In  the  daisied  meadows ; '  lo  you  her  thin  hand, 

That  on  the  carven  stone  cannot  keep  still, 
Because  she  loves  me  against  God's  command, 

"  Has  often  been  quite  wet  with  tear  on  tear, 
Tears  Launcelot  keeps  somewhere,  surely  not 

In  his  own  heart,  perhaps  in  Heaven,  where 
He  will  not  be  these  ages  —  "  "  Launcelot ! 

"  Loud  lips,  wrung  heart !     I  say  when  the  bells  rang, 

The  noisy  back-toll'd  bells  of  Camelot, 
There  were  two  spots  on  earth,  the  thrushes  sang 

In  the  lonely  gardens  where  my  love  was  not, 

"  Where  I  was  almost  weeping ;  I  dared  not 

Weep  quite  in  those  days,  lest  one  maid  should  say, 

In  tittering  whispers,  '  Where  is  Launcelot 

To  wipe  with  some  kerchief  those  tears  away  ? ' 

"Another  answer  sharply  with  brows  knit, 
And  warning  hand  up,  scarcely  lower  though, 

'  You  speak  too  loud,  see  you,  she  heareth  it, 
This  tigress  fair  has  claws,  as  I  well  know, 

" '  As  Launcelot  knows  too,  the  poor  knight !  well-a-day ! 

Why  met  he  not  with  Iseult  from  the  West, 
Or  better  still,  Iseult  of  Brittany, 

Perchance  indeed  quite  ladyless  were  best.' 

"  Alas,  my  maids,  you  loved  not  overmuch 

Queen  Guenevere,  uncertain  as  sunshine 
In  March ;  forgive  me  !  for  my  sin  being  such, 

About  my  whole  life,  all  my  deeds  did  twine, 

"  Made  me  quite  wicked ;  as  I  found  out  then, 
I  think ;  in  the  lonely  palace  where  each  morn 

We  went,  my  maids  and  I,  to  say  prayers  when 
They  sang  mass  in  the  chapel  on  the  lawn. 


KING  ARTHUR'S   TOMB.  21 

"  And  every  morn  I  scarce  could  pray  at  all, 
For  Launcelot's  red-golden  hair  would  play, 

Instead  of  sunlight,  on  the  painted  wall, 

Mingled  with  dreams  of  what  the  priest  did  say ; 

"  Grim  curses  out  of  Peter  and  of  Paul ; 

Judging  of  strange  sins  in  Leviticus ; 
Another  sort  of  writing  on  the  wall, 

Scored  deep  across  the  painted  heads  of  us. 

"  Christ  sitting  with  the  woman  at  the  well, 

And  Mary  Magdalen  repenting  there, 
Her  dimmed  eyes  scorch'd  and  red  at  sight  of  hell 

So  hardly  'scaped,  no  gold  light  on  her  hair. 

"  And  if  the  priest  said  anything  that  seemed 
To  touch  upon  the  sin  they  said  we  did,  — 

(This  in  their  teeth)  they  looked  as  if  they  deem'd 
That  I  was  spying  what  thoughts  might  be  hid 

"  Under  green-cover'd  bosoms,  heaving  quick 

Beneath  quick  thoughts ;   while  they  grew  red  with 
shame, 

And  gazed  down  at  their  feet  —  while  I  felt  sick, 
And  almost  shriek'd  if  one  should  call  my  name. 

"  The  thrushes  sang  in  the  lone  garden  there 

But  where  you  were  the  birds  were  scared  I  trow  — 

Clanging  of  arms  about  pavilions  fair, 

Mixed  with  the  knights'  laughs ;  there,  as  I  well  know, 

"  Rode  Launcelot,  the  king  of  all  the  band, 
And  scowling  Gauwaine,  like  the  night  in  day, 

And  handsome  Gareth,  with  his  great  white  hand 
Curl'd  round  the  helm-crest,  ere  he  join'd  the  fray; 

"  And  merry  Dinadan  with  sharp  dark  face, 
All  true  knights  loved  to  see ;  and  in  the  fight 

Great  Tristram,  and  though  helmed  you  could  trace 
In  all  his  bearing  the  frank  noble  knight ; 

"  And  by  him  Palomydes,  helmet  off, 
He  fought,  his  face  brush'd  by  his  hair, 


22  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

Ked  heavy  swinging  hair ;  he  fear'd  a  scoff 

So  overmuch,  though  what  true  knight  would  dare 

"  To  mock  that  face,  fretted  with  useless  care, 

And  bitter  useless  striving  after  love  ? 
0  Palomydes,  with  much  honour  bear 

Beast  Glatysaunt  upon  your  shield,  above 

"  Your  helm  that  hides  the  swinging  of  your  hair, 
And  think  of  Iseult,  as  your  sword  drives  through 

Much  mail  and  plate  —  0  God,  let  me  be  there 
A  little  time,  as  I  was  long  ago ! 

"  Because  stout  Gareth  lets  his  spear  fall  low, 

Gauwaine  and  Launcelot,  and  Dinadan 
Are  helm'd  and  waiting ;  let  the  trumpets  go ! 

Bend  over,  ladies,  to  see  all  you  can ! 

"  Clench  teeth,  dames,  yea,  clasp  hands,  for  Gareth's  spear 
Throws  Kay  from  out  his  saddle,  like  a  stone 

From  a  castle- window  when  the  foe  draws  near  — 
( Iseult '  —  Sir  Dinadan  rolleth  overthrown. 

"'Iseult'  —  again — the  pieces  of  each  spear 
Fly  fathoms  up,  and  both  the  great  steeds  reel ; 

'  Tristram  for  Iseult ! '     '  Iseult '  and  '  Guenevere ! ' 
The  ladies'  names  bite  verily  like  steel. 

"They  bite  — bite  me,  Lord  God !  — I  shall  go  mad, 

Or  else  die  kissing  him,  he  is  so  pale, 
He  thinks  me  mad  already,  0  bad !  bad ! 

Let  me  lie  down  a  little  while  and  wail." 

"  No  longer  so,  rise  up,  I  pray  you,  love, 
And  slay  me  really,  then  we  shall  be  heal'd, 

Perchance,  in  the  aftertime  by  God  above." 
"  Banner  of  Arthur  —  with  black-bended  shield 

"  Sinister-wise  across  the  fair  gold  ground ! 

Here  let  me  tell  you  what  a  knight  you  are, 
0  sword  and  shield  of  Arthur !  you  are  found 

A  crooked  sword,  I  think,  that  leaves  a  scar 


KING  ARTHUR'S   TOMB.  23 

"  On  the  bearer's  arm,  so  be  he  thinks  it  straight, 
Twisted  Malay's  crease  beautiful  blue-grey, 

Poison'd  with  sweet  fruit ;  as  he  found  too  late, 
My  husband  Arthur,  on  some  bitter  day ! 

"  0  sickle  cutting  hemlock  the  day  long ! 

That  the  husbandman  across  his  shoulder  hangs, 
And,  going  homeward  about  evensong, 

Dies  the  next  morning,  struck  through  by  the  fangs ! 

"  Banner,  and  sword,  and  shield,  you  dare  not  pray  to  die, 
Lest  you  meet  Arthur  in  the  other  world, 

And,  knowing  who  you  are,  he  pass  you  by, 

Taking  short  turns  that  he  may  watch  you  curl'd, 

"  Body  and  face  and  limbs  in  agony, 

Lest  he  weep  presently  and  go  away, 
Saying,  '  I  loved  him  once,'  with  a  sad  sigh  — 

Now  I  have  slain  him,  Lord,  let  me  go  too,  I  pray. 

[LAUNCELOT  falls* 

"  Alas !  alas !  I  know  not  what  to  do, 

If  I  run  fast  it  is  perchance  that  I 
May  fall  and  stun  myself,  much  better  so, 

Never,  never  again !  not  even  when  I  die." 


LAUNCELOT,  on  awaking. 

"  I  stretch'd  my  hands  towards  her  and  fell  down, 
How  long  I  lay  in  swoon  I  cannot  tell : 

My  head  and  hands  were  bleeding  from  the  stone, 
When  I  rose  up,  also  I  heard  a  bell." 


24  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

SIR  PETER  HARPD01SPS  END.3 
In  an  English  Castle  in  Poictou. 

SIR  PETER   HARPDON,  a  Gascon  Jcnight  in  the  English 
service,  and  JOHN  CURZON,  his  lieutenant. 

JOHN  CURZON. 

OF  those  three  prisoners,  that  before  you  came 
We  took  down  at  St.  John's  hard  by  the  mill, 
Two  are  good  masons ;  we  have  tools  enough, 
And  you  have  skill  to  set  them  working. 

SIR  PETER. 

So  — 
What  are  their  names  ? 

JOHN  CURZON. 

Why,  Jacques  Aquadent, 
And  Peter  Plombiere,  but,  — 

SIR  PETER. 

What  colour'd  hair 
Has  Peter  now  ?  has  Jacques  got  bow  legs  ? 

JOHN  CURZON. 

Why,  sir,  you  jest  —  what  matters  Jacques'  hair, 
Or  Peter's  legs  to  us  ? 

SIR  PETER. 

0 !  John,  John,  John ! 

Throw  all  your  mason's  tools  down  the  deep  well, 
Hang  Peter  up  and  Jacques ;  they  're  no  good, 
We  shall  not  build,  man. 

JOHN  CURZON,  going. 

Shall  I  call  the  guard 
To  hang  them,  sir  ?  and  yet,  sir,  for  the  tools, 


SIR  PETER  HARPDON'S  END.  25 

We  'd  better  keep  them  still ;  sir,  fare  you  well. 

[Muttering  as  he  goes. 

What  have  I  done  that  he  should  jape  at  me  ? 
And  why  not  build  ?  the  walls  are  weak  enough, 
And  we  've  two  masons  and  a  heap  of  tools. 

[Goes,  still  muttering. 
SIR  PETER. 

To  think  a  man  should  have  a  lump  like  that 

For  his  lieutenant !     I  must  call  him  back, 

Or  else,  as  surely  as  St.  George  is  dead, 

He  '11  hang  our  friends  the  masons  —  here,  John !  John  I 

JOHN  CURZON. 
At  your  good  service,  sir. 

SIR  PETER. 

Come  now,  and  talk 

This  weighty  matter  out ;  there  —  we  've  no  stone 
To  mend  our  walls  with,  —  neither  brick  nor  stone. 

JOHN  CURZON. 
There  is  a  quarry,  sir,  some  ten  miles  off. 

SIR  PETER. 

We  are  not  strong  enough  to  send  ten  men 
Ten  miles  to  fetch  us  stone  enough  to  build, 
In  three  hours'  time  they  would  be  taken  or  slain, 
The  cursed  Frenchmen  ride  abroad  so  thick. 

JOHN  CURZON. 
But  we  can  send  some  villaynes  to  get  stone. 

SIR  PETER. 

Alas !  John,  that  we  cannot  bring  them  back, 

They  would  go  off  to  Clisson  or  Sanxere, 

And  tell  them  we  were  weak  in  walls  and  men, 

Then  down  go  we ;  for,  look  you,  times  are  changed, 

And  now  no  longer  does  the  country  shake 

At  sound  of  English  names ;  our  captains  fade 

From  off  our  muster-rolls.     At  Lusac  Bridge 


26        EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

I  daresay  you  may  even  yet  see  the  hole 

That  Chandos  beat  in  dying ;  far  in  Spain 

Pembroke  is  prisoner ;  Phelton  prisoner  here  j 

Manny  lies  buried  in  the  Charterhouse ; 

Oliver  Clisson  turn'd  these  years  agone ; 

The  Captal  died  in  prison ;  and,  over  all, 

Edward  the  prince  lies  underneath  the  ground, 

Edward  the  king  is  dead  at  Westminster; 

The  carvers  smooth  the  curls  of  his  long  beard. 

Everything  goes  to  rack  —  eh !  and  we  too. 

Now,  Curzon,  listen ;  if  they  come,  these  French, 

Whom  have  I  got  to  lean  on  here,  but  you  ? 

A  man  can  die  but  once,  will  you  die  then, 

Your  brave  sword  in  your  hand,  thoughts  in  your  heart 

Of  all  the  deeds  we  have  done  here  in  France  — 

And  yet  may  do  ?     So  God  will  have  your  soul, 

Whoever  has  your  body. 

JOHN  CURZON. 

Why,  sir,  I 

Will  fight  till  the  last  moment,  until  then 
Will  do  whate'er  you  tell  me.     Now  I  see 
We  must  e'en  leave  the  walls;  well,  well,  perhaps 
They  're  stronger  than  I  think  for ;  pity,  though ! 
For  some  few  tons  of  stone,  if  Guesclin  comes. 

SIR  PETER. 

Farewell,  John,  pray  you  watch  the  Gascons  well, 
I  doubt  them. 

JOHN  CURZON. 
Truly,  sir,  I  will  watch  well.  [Goes. 

SIR  PETER. 

Farewell,  good  lump !  and  yet,  when  all  is  said, 

'T  is  a  good  lump.     Why  then,  if  Guesclin  comes ; 

Some  dozen  stones  from  his  petrariae, 

And,  under  shelter  of  his  crossbows,  just 

An  hour's  steady  work  with  pickaxes, 

Then  a  great  noise  —  some  dozen  swords  and  glaives 

A-playing  on  my  basnet  all  at  once, 

And  little  more  cross  purposes  on  earth 


SIR  PETER  HARPDON'S  END.  27 

For  me. 

Now  this  is  hard :  a  month  ago, 
And  a  few  minutes'  talk  had  set  things  right 
'Twixt  me  and  Alice ;  —  if  she  had  a  doubt, 
As,  (may  Heaven  bless  her !)  I  scarce  think  she  had, 
'T  was  but  their  hammer,  hammer  in  her  ears, 
Of  "  how  Sir  Peter  fail'd  at  Lusac  Bridge : " 
And  "  how  he  was  grown  moody  of  late  days ; " 
And  "  how  Sir  Lambert,"  (think  now !)  "  his  dear  friend, 
His  sweet,  dear  cousin,  could  not  but  confess 
That  Peter's  talk  tended  towards  the  French, 
Which  he,"  (for  instance  Lambert)  "  was  glad  of, 
Being,"  (Lambert,  you  see)  "  on  the  French  side." 

Well, 

If  I  could  but  have  seen  her  on  that  day, 
Then,  when  they  sent  me  off ! 

I  like  to  think, 

Although  it  hurts  me,  makes  my  head  twist,  what, 
If  I  had  seen  her,  what  I  should  have  said, 
What  she,  my  darling,  would  have  said  and  done. 
As  thus  perchance  — 

To  find  her  sitting  there, 
In  the  window-seat,  not  looking  well  at  all, 
Crying  perhaps,  and  I  say  quietly ; 
"  Alice !  "  she  looks  up,  chokes  a  sob,  looks  grave, 
Changes  from  pale  to  red,  but,  ere  she  speaks, 
Straightway  I  kneel  down  there  on  both  my  kne< 
And  say :  "  0  lady,  have  I  sinn'd,  your  knight  ? 
That  still  you  ever  let  me  walk  alone 
In  the  rose  garden,  that  you  sing  no  songs 
When  I  am  by,  that  ever  in  the  dance 
You  quietly  walk  away  when  I  come  near  ? 
Now  that  I  have  you,  will  you  go,  think  you  ?  " 

Ere  she  could  answer  I  would  speak  again, 
Still  kneeling  there. 

"What!  they  have  frighted  you, 
By  hanging  burs,  and  clumsily  carven  puppets, 
Bound  my  good  name ;  but  afterwards,  my  love, 
I  will  say  what  this  means ;  this  moment,  see ! 
Do  I  kneel  here,  and  can  you  doubt  me  ?     Yea," 
(For  she  would  put  her  hands  upon  my  face,) 
"Yea,  that  is  best,  yea  feel,  love,  am  I  changed?" 


28  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

And  she  would  say :  "  Good  knight,  come,  kiss  my  lips ! M 
And  afterwards  as  I  sat  there  would  say : 

"  Please  a  poor  silly  girl  by  telling  me 

What  all  those  things  they  talk  of  really  were, 

For  it  is  true  you  did  not  help  Chandos 

And  true,  poor  love  !  you  could  not  come  to  me 

When  I  was  in  such  peril." 

I  should  say : 

"  I  am  like  Balen,  all  things  turn  to  blame  — 
I  did  not  come  to  you  ?    At  Bergerath 
The  constable  had  held  us  close  shut  up, 
If  from  the  barriers  I  had  made  three  steps, 
I  should  have  been  but  slain ;  at  Lusac,  too, 
We  struggled  in  a  marish  half  the  day, 
And  came  too  late  at  last :  you  know,  my  love, 
How  heavy  men  and  horses  are  all  arm'd. 
All  that  Sir  Lambert  said  was  pure,  unmix'd, 
Quite  groundless  lies ;  as  you  can  think,  sweet  love." 

She,  holding  tight  my  hand  as  we  sat  there, 

Started  a  little  at  Sir  Lambert's  name, 

But  otherwise  she  listen'd  scarce  at  all 

To  what  I  said.     Then  with  moist,  weeping  eyes, 

And  quivering  lips,  that  scarcely  let  her  speak, 

She  said,  "  I  love  you." 

Other  words  were  few, 

The  remnant  of  that  hour ;  her  hand  smooth' d  down 
My  foolish  head ;  she  kiss'd  me  all  about 
My  face,  and  through  the  tangles  of  my  beard 
Her  little  fingers  crept. 

0 !  God,  my  Alice, 

Not  this  good  way :  my  lord  but  sent  and  said 
That  Lambert's  sayings  were  taken  at  their  worth, 
Therefore  that  day  I  was  to  start,  and  keep 
This  hold  against  the  French ;  and  I  am  here,  — 

[Looks  out  of  the  window. 
A  sprawling  lonely  yard  with  rotten  walls, 
And  no  one  to  bring  aid  if  Guesclin  comes, 
Or  any  other. 

There 's  a  pennon  now ! 
At  last. 


SIR  PETER  HARPDON'S  END.  29 

But  not  the  constable's,  whose  arms, 
I  wonder,  does  it  bear  ?     Three  golden  rings 
On  a  red  ground  ;  my  cousin's  by  the  rood ! 
Well,  I  should  like  to  kill  him,  certainly, 
But  to  be  kill'd  by  him  —  [A  trumpet  sounds. 

That's  for  a  herald; 
I  doubt  this  does  not  mean  assaulting  yet. 

Enter  JOHN  CURZON. 
What  says  the  herald  of  our  cousin,  sir  ? 

JOHN  CURZON. 

So  please  you,  sir,  concerning  your  estate, 
He  has  good  will  to  talk  with  you. 

SIR  PETER. 

Outside, 

I  '11  talk  with  him,  close  by  the  gate  St.  Ives. 
Is  he  unarm'd  ? 

JOHN  CURZON. 
Yea,  sir,  in  a  long  gown. 

SIR  PETER. 

Then  bid  them  bring  me  hither  my  furr'd  gown 
With  the  long  sleeves,  and  under  it  I  '11  wear, 
By  Lambert's  leave,  a  secret  coat  of  mail ; 
And  will  you  lend  me,  John,  your  little  axe  ? 
I  mean  the  one  with  Paul  wrought  on  the  blade  ? 
And  I  will  carry  it  inside  my  sleeve, 
Good  to  be  ready  always — you,  John,  go 
And  bid  them  set  up  many  suits  of  arms, 
Bows,  archgays,  lances,  in  the  base-court,  and 
Yourself,  from  the  south  postern  setting  out, 
With  twenty  men,  be  ready  to  break  through 
Their  unguarded  rear  when  I  cry  out  "  St.  George ! " 

JOHN  CURZON. 

How,  sir  !  will  you  attack  him  unawares, 
And  slay  him  unarm'd  ? 


30  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

SIR  PETER. 

Trust  me,  John,  I  know 

The  reason  why  he  comes  here  with  sleeved  gown, 
Fit  to  hide  axes  up.     So,  let  us  go.  [.They  go. 

Outside  the  castle  by  the  great  gate;  SIR  LAMBERT  and  SIR 
PETER  seated;  guards  attending  each,  the  rest  of  SIR 
LAMBERT'S  men  drawn  up  about  a  furlong  off". 

SIR  PETER. 

And  if  I  choose  to  take  the  losing  side 
Still,  does  it  hurt  you  ? 

SIR  LAMBERT. 

0  !  no  hurt  to  me ; 

I  see  you  sneering,  "  Why  take  trouble  then, 
Seeing  you  love  me  not  ?  "     Look  you,  our  house 
(Which,  taken  altogether,  I  love  much) 
Had  better  be  upon  the  right  side  now, 
If,  once  for  all,  it  wishes  to  bear  rule 
As  such  a  house  should :  cousin,  you  're  too  wise 
To  feed  your  hope  up  fat,  that  this  fair  France 
Will  ever  draw  two  ways  again ;  this  side 
The  French,  wrong-headed,  all  a-jar 
With  envious  longings ;  and  the  other  side 
The  order'd  English,  orderly  led  on 
By  those  two  Edwards  through  all  wrong  and  right, 
And  muddling  right  and  wrong  to  a  thick  broth 
With  that  long  stick,  their  strength.    This  is  all  changed, 
The  true  French  win,  on  either  side  you  have 
Cool-headed  men,  good  at  a  tilting-match, 
And  good  at  setting  battles  in  array, 
And  good  at  squeezing  taxes  at  due  time ; 
Therefore  by  nature  we  French  being  here 
Upon  our  own  big  land  —  [SiR  PETER  laughs  aloud. 

Well  Peter!  well! 
What  makes  you  laugh  ? 

SIR  PETER. 

Hearing  you  sweat  to  prove 
All  this  I  know  so  well ;  but  you  have  read 
The  siege  of  Troy  ? 


SIR  PETER  HARPOON'S  END.  31 

SIR  LAMBERT. 

0 !  yea,  I  know  it  well. 

SIR  PETER. 

There !  they  were  wrong,  as  wrong  as  men  could  be  j 
For,  as  I  think,  they  found  it  such  delight 
To  see  fair  Helen  going  through  their  town : 
Yea,  any  little  common  thing  she  did 
(As  stooping  to  pick  a  flower)  seem'd  so  strange, 
So  new  in  its  great  beauty,  that  they  said : 
"  Here  we  will  keep  her  living  in  this  town, 
Till  all  burns  up  together."     And  so,  fought, 
In  a  mad  whirl  of  knowing  they  were  wrong ; 
Yea,  they  fought  well,  and  ever,  like  a  man 
That  hangs  legs  off  the  ground  by  both  his  hands, 
Over  some  great  height,  did  they  struggle  sore, 
Quite  sure  to  slip  at  last ;  wherefore,  take  note 
How  almost  all  men,  reading  that  sad  siege, 
Hold  for  the  Trojans;  as  I  did  at  least, 
Thought  Hector  the  best  knight  a  long  way : 

Now 

Why  should  I  not  do  this  thing  that  I  think ; 
For  even  when  I  come  to  count  the  gains, 
I  have  them  my  side ;  men  will  talk,  you  know, 
(We  talk  of  Hector,  dead  so  long  agone,) 
When  I  am  dead,  of  how  this  Peter  clung 
To  what  he  thought  the  right ;  of  how  he  died, 
Perchance,  at  last,  doing  some  desperate  deed 
Few  men  would  care  do  now,  and  this  is  gain. 
To  me,  as  ease  and  money  is  to  you. 
Moreover,  too,  I  like  the  straining  game 
Of  striving  well  to  hold  up  things  that  fall ; 
So  one  becomes  great ;  see  you !  in  good  times 
All  men  live  well  together,  and  you,  too, 
Live  dull  and  happy  —  happy  ?  not  so  quick, 
Suppose  sharp  thoughts  begin  to  burn  you  up. 
Why  then,  but  just  to  fight  as  I  do  now, 
A  halter  round  my  neck,  would  be  great  bliss. 
0 !  I  am  well  off/  [Aside. 

Talk,  and  talk,  and  talk, 
I  know  this  man  has  come  to  murder  me, 
And  yet  I  talk  still. 


32  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

SIR  LAMBERT. 

If  your  side  were  right, 

You  might  be,  though  you  lost ;  but  if  I  said, 
"  You  are  a  traitor,  being,  as  you  are, 
Born  Frenchman."     What  are  Edwards  unto  you, 
Or  Eichards  ? 

SIR  PETER. 

Nay,  hold  there,  my  Lambert,  hold ! 
For  fear  your  zeal  should  bring  you  to  some  harm, 
Don't  call  me  traitor. 

SIR  LAMBERT. 

Furthermore,  my  knight, 
Men  call  you  slippery  on  your  losing  side. 
When  at  Bordeaux  I  was  ambassador, 
I  heard  them  say  so,  and  could  scarce  say  "  Nay." 

\_He  takes  hold  of  something  in  his  sleeve,  and  rises. 

SIR  PETER,  rising. 

They  lied  —  and  you  lie,  not  for  the  first  time. 
What  have  you  got  there,  fumbling  up  your  sleeve, 
A  stolen  purse  ? 

SIR  LAMBERT. 

Nay,  liar  in  your  teeth ! 
Dead  liar  too ;  St.  Denis  and  St.  Lambert ! 

[Strikes  at  SIR  PETER  with  a  dagger. 

SIR  PETER,  striking  him  flattings  with  his  axe. 

How  thief !  thief  !  thief !  so  there,  fair  thief,  so  there, 
St.  George  Guienne !  glaives  for  the  castellan ! 
You  French,  you  are  but  dead,  unless  you  lay 
Your  spears  upon  the  earth.     St.  George  Guienne ! 

Well  done,  John  Curzon,  how  he  has  them  now. 


In  the  Castle. 

JOHN  CURZON. 
WHAT  shall  we  do  with  all  these  prisoners,  sir  ? 


SIR  PETER  HARPDON'S  END.  33 

SIR  PETER. 

Why  put  them  all  to  ransom,  those  that  can 
Pay  anything,  but  not  too  light  though,  John, 
Seeing  we  have  them  on  the  hip :  for  those 
That  have  no  money,  that  being  certified, 
Why  turn  them  out  of  doors  before  they  spy ; 
But  bring  Sir  Lambert  guarded  unto  me. 

JOHN  CURZON. 

I  will,  fair  sir.  [He  goes. 

SIR  PETER. 

I  do  not  wish  to  kill  him, 

Although  I  think  I  ought ;  he  shall  go  mark'd, 
By  all  the  saints,  though ! 

Enter  LAMBERT  guarded. 

Now  Sir  Lambert,  now ! 
What  sort  of  death  do  you  expect  to  get, 
Being  taken  this  way  ? 

SIR  LAMBERT 

Cousin !  cousin !  think ! 
I  am  your  own  blood ;  may  God  pardon  me ! 
I  am  not  fit  to  die ;  if  you  knew  all, 
All  I  have  done  since  I  was  young  and  good. 
O !  you  would  give  me  yet  another  chance, 
As  God  would,  that  I  might  wash  all  clear  out 
By  serving  you  and  Him  !     Let  me  go  now ! 
And  I  will  pay  you  down  more  golden  crowns 
Of  ransom  than  the  king  would  ! 

SIR  PETER. 

Well,  stand  back, 

And  do  not  touch  me !    No,  you  shall  not  die, 
Nor  yet  pay  ransom.     You,  John  Curzon,  cause 
Some  carpenters  to  build  a  scaffold,  high, 
Outside  the  gate ;  when  it  is  built,  sound  out 
To  all  good  folks,  "  Come,  see  a  traitor  punish' d ! " 
Take  me  my  knight,  and  set  him  up  thereon, 
And  let  the  hangman  shave  his  head  quite  clean, 
And  cut  his  ears  off  close  up  to  the  head ; 


34  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

And  cause  the  minstrels  all  the  while  to  play 
Soft  music,  and  good  singing  ;  for  this  day 
Is  my  high  day  of  triumph ;  is  it  not, 
Sir  Lambert  ? 

SIR  LAMBERT. 

Ah !  on  your  own  blood, 

Own  name,  you  heap  this  foul  disgrace  ?  you  dare, 
With  hands  and  fame  thus  sullied,  to  go  back 
And  take  the  lady  Alice  — 

SIR  PETER. 

Say  her  name 

Again,  and  you  are  dead,  slain  here  by  me. 
Why  should  I  talk  with  you,  I  'm  master  here, 
And  do  not  want  your  schooling ;  is  it  not 
My  mercy  that  you  are  not  dangling  dead 
There  in  the  gateway  with  a  broken  neck  ? 

SIR  LAMBERT. 

Such  mercy !  why  not  kill  me  then  outright  ? 
To  die  is  nothing ;  but  to  live  that  all 
May  point  their  fingers !  yea,  I  'd  rather  die. 

JOHN  CURZON. 

Why,  will  it  make  you  any  uglier  man 

To  lose  your  ears  ?  they  're  much  too  big  for  you, 

You  ugly  Judas ! 

SIR  PETER. 

Hold,  John!  [To  LAMBERT. 

That 's  your  choice, 

To  die,  mind !    Then  you  shall  die  —  Lambert  mine, 
I  thank  you  now  for  choosing  this  so  well, 
It  saves  me  much  perplexity  and  doubt; 
Perchance  an  ill  deed  too,  for  half  I  count 
This  sparing  traitors  is  an  ill  deed. 

Well, 
Lambert,  die  bravely,  and  we  're  almost  friends. 


SIR  LAMBERT, 
0  God !  this  is  a  fiend  and  not  a  man ; 


SIR  PETER  HARPDON'S  END.  35 

"Will  some  one  save  me  from  him  ?  help,  help,  help ! 
J  will  not  die. 

SIB  PETER. 

Why,  what  is  this  I  see  ? 
A  man  who  is  a  knight,  and  bandied  words 
So  well  just  now  with  me,  is  lying  down, 
Gone  mad  for  fear  like  this !     So,  so,  you  thought 
You  knew  the  worst,  and  might  say  what  you  pleased. 
I  should  have  guess'd  this  from  a  man  like  you. 
Eh !  righteous  Job  would  give  up  skin  for  skin, 
Yea,  all  a  man  can  have  for  simple  life, 
And  we  talk  fine,  yea,  even  a  hound  like  this, 
Who  needs  must  know  that  when  he  dies,  deep  hell 
Will  hold  him  fast  for  ever  —  so  fine  we  talk, 
"  Would  rather  die  —  "  all  that.     Now  sir,  get  up ! 
And  choose  again :  shall  it  be  head  sans  ears, 
Or  trunk  sans  head  ? 

John  Curzon,  pull  him  up ! 

What,  life  then  ?  go  and  build  the  scaffold,  John. 
..     Lambert,  I  hope  that  never  on  this  earth 
We  meet  again;  that  you  '11  turn  out  a  monk, 
And  mend  the  life  I  give  you,  so,  farewell, 
I  'm  sorry  you  're  a  rascal.    John,  despatch. 


In  the  French  Camp  before  the  Castle. 
SIB  PETEB  prisoner,  GUESCLIN,  CLISSON,  SIB  LAMBERT. 

SIR  PETER. 

So  now  is  come  the  ending  of  my  life ; 
If  I  could  clear  this  sickening  lump  away 
That  sticks  in  my  dry  throat,  and  say  a  word, 
Guesclin  might  listen. 

GUESCLIN. 

Tell  me,  fair  sir  knight, 
If  you  have  been  clean  liver  before  God, 
And  then  you  need  not  fear  much ;  as  for  me, 
I  cannot  say  I  hate  you,  yet  my  oath, 
And  cousin  Lambert's  ears  here  clench  the  thing. 


36  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

SIR  PETER. 

I  knew  you  could  not  hate  me,  therefore  I 
Am  bold  to  pray  for  life ;  't  will  harm  your  cause 
To  hang  knights  of  good  name,  harms  here  in  France 
I  have  small  doubt,  at  any  rate  hereafter 
Men  will  remember  you  another  way 
Than  I  should  care  to  be  remember'd,  ah! 
Although  hot  lead  runs  through  me  f of  my  blood, 
All  this  falls  cold  as  though  I  said,  "  Sweet  lords, 
Give  back  my  falcon ! " 

See  how  young  I  am, 
Do  you  care  altogether  more  than  France, 
Say  rather  one  French  faction,  than  for  all 
The  state  of  Christendom  ?  a  gallant  knight, 
As  (yea,  by  God !)  I  have  been,  is  more  worth 
Than  many  castles ;  will  you  bring  this  death, 
For  a  mere  act  of  justice,  on  my  head  ? 

Think  how  it  ends  all,  death !  all  other  things 
Can  somehow  be  retrieved,  yea,  send  me  forth 
Naked  and  maimed,  rather  than  slay  me  here ; 
Then  somehow  will  I  get  me  other  clothes, 
And  somehow  will  I  get  me  some  poor  horse, 
And,  somehow  clad  in  poor  old  rusty  arms, 
Will  ride  and  smite  among  the  serried  glaives, 
Fear  not  death  so ;  for  I  can  tilt  right  well, 
Let  me  not  say  "  I  could  "  ;  I  know  all  tricks, 
That  sway  the  sharp  sword  cunningly ;  ah  you, 
You,  my  Lord  Clisson,  in  the  other  days 
Have  seen  me  learning  these,  yea,  call  to  mind, 
How  in  the  trodden  corn  by  Chartres  town, 
When  you  were  nearly  swooning  from  the  back 
Of  your  black  horse,  those  three  blades  slid  at  once 
From  off  my  sword's  edge ;  pray  for  me,  my  lord ! 

CLISSON. 

Nay,  this  is  pitiful,  to  see  him  die. 
My  Lord  the  Constable,  I  pray  you  note 
That  you  are  losing  some  few  thousand  crowns 
By  slaying  this  man ;  also  think ;  his  lands 
Along  the  Garonne  river  lie  for  leagues, 
And  are  right  rich,  a  many  mills  he  has, 


SIR  PETER  HARPDON'S  END.  37 

Three  abbeys  of  grey  monks  do  hold  of  him, 

Though  wishing  well  for  Clement,  as  we  do; 

I  know  the  next  heir,  his  old  uncle,  well, 

Who  does  not  care  two  deniers  for  the  knight 

As  things  go  now,  but  slay  him,  and  then  see, 

How  he  will  bristle  up  like  any  perch, 

With  curves  of  spears.     What !  do  not  doubt,  my  lord, 

You  '11  get  the  money,  this  man  saved  my  life, 

And  I  will  buy  him  for  two  thousand  crowns ; 

Well,  five  then — eh !  what !     "  No  "  again  ?  well  then, 

Ten  thousand  crowns  ? 

GUESCLIN. 

My  sweet  lord,  much  I  grieve 
I  cannot  please  you,  yea,  good  sooth,  I  grieve 
This  knight  must  die,  as  verily  he  must ; 
For  I  have  sworn  it,  so  men  take  him  out, 
Use  him  not  roughly. 

SIK  LAMBERT,  coining  forward. 

Music,  do  you  know, 

Music  will  suit  you  well,  I  think,  because 
You  look  so  mild,  like  Laurence  being  grill'd; 
Or  perhaps  music  soft  and  slow,  because 
This  is  high  day  of  triumph  unto  me, 
Is  it  not,  Peter  ? 

You  are  frighten' d,  though, 
Eh !  you  are  pale,  because  this  hurts  you  much, 
Whose  life  was  pleasant  to  you,  not  like  mine, 
You  ruin'd  wretch !     Men  mock  me  in  the  streets, 
Only  in  whispers  loud,  because  I  am 
Friend  of  the  constable ;  will  this  please  you, 
Unhappy  Peter  ?  once  a-going  home, 
Without  my  servants,  and  a  little  drunk, 
At  midnight  through  the  lone  dim  lamp-lit  streets, 
A  whore  came  up  and  spat  into  my  eyes, 
Eather  to  blind  me  than  to  make  me  see, 
But  she  was  very  drunk,  and  tottering  back, 
Even  in  the  middle  of  her  laughter  fell 
And  cut  her  head  against  the  pointed  stones, 
While  I  lean'd  on  my  staff,  and  look'd  at  her, 
And  cried,  being  drunk. 

Girls  would  not  spit  at  you. 


38  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

You  are  so  handsome,  I  think  verily 

Most  ladies  would  be  glad  to  kiss  your  eyes, 

And  yet  you  will  be  hung  like  a  cur  dog 

Five  minutes  hence,  and  grow  black  in  the  face, 

And  curl  your  toes  up.    Therefore  I  am  glad. 

Guess  why  I  stand  and  talk  this  nonsense  now, 
With  Guesclin  getting  ready  to  play  chess, 
And  Clisson  doing  something  with  his  sword, 
I  can't  see  what,  talking  to  Guesclin  though, 
I  don't  know  what  about,  perhaps  of  you. 
But,  cousin  Peter,  while  I  stroke  your  beard, 
Let  me  say  this,  I  'd  like  to  tell  you  now 
That  your  life  hung  upon  a  game  of  chess, 
That  if,  say,  my  squire  Robert  here  should  beat, 
Why  you  should  live,  but  hang  if  I  beat  him  ; 
Then  guess,  clever  Peter,  what  I  should  do  then ; 
Well,  give  it  up  ?  why  Peter,  I  should  let 
My  squire  Robert  beat  me,  then  you  would  think 
That  you  were  safe,  you  know;  Eh?  not  at  all, 
But  I  should  keep  you  three  days  in  some  hold, 
Giving  you  salt  to  eat,  which  would  be  kind, 
Considering  the  tax  there  is  on  salt ; 
And  afterwards  should  let  you  go,  perhaps  ? 
No  I  should  not,  but  I  should  hang  you,  sir, 
With  a  red  rope  in  lieu  of  mere  grey  rope. 

But  I  forgot,  you  have  not  told  me  yet 
If  you  can  guess  why  I  talk  nonsense  thus, 
Instead  of  drinking  wine  while  you  are  hang'd  ? 
You  are  not  quick  at  guessing,  give  it  up. 
This  is  the  reason ;  here  I  hold  your  hand, 
And  watch  you  growing  paler,  see  you  writhe, 
And  this,  my  Peter,  is  a  joy  so  dear, 
I  cannot  by  all  striving  tell  you  how 
I  love  it,  nor  I  think,  good  man,  would  you 
Quite  understand  my  great  delight  therein ; 
You,  when  you  had  me  underneath  you  once, 
Spat  as  it  were,  and  said,  "  Go  take  him  out," 
(That  they  might  do  that  thing  to  me  whereat, 
E'en  now  this  long  time  off  I  could  well  shriek,) 
And  then  you  tried  forget  I  ever  lived, 
And  sunk  your  hating  into  other  things  ; 


SIR  PETER  HARP  DON'S  END.  39 

While  I  —  St.  Denis !  though,  I  think  you'll  faint, 

Your  lips  are  grey  so  ;  yes,  you  will,  unless 

You  let  it  out  and  weep  Hike  a  hurt  child  ; 

Hurrah !  you  do  now.     Do  not  go  just  yet, 

For  I  am  Alice,  am  right  like  her  now ; 

Will  you  not  kiss  me  on  the  lips,  my  love  ?  — 

CLISSON. 

You  filthy  beast,  stand  back  and  let  him  go, 

Or  by  God's  eyes  I  '11  choke  you.     [Kneeling  to  SIR  PETER. 

Fair  sir  knight, 

I  kneel  upon  my  knees  and  pray  to  you 
That  you  would  pardon  me  for  this  your  death ; 
God  knows  how  much  I  wish  you  still  alive, 
Also  how  heartily  I  strove  to  save 
Your  life  at  this  time ;  yea,  He  knows  quite  well, 
(I  swear  it,  so  forgive  me !)  how  I  would, 
If  it  were  possible,  give  up  my  life 
Upon  this  grass  for  yours ;  fair  knight,  although, 
He  knowing  all  things  knows  this  thing  too,  well, 
Yet  when  you  see  His  face  some  short  time  hence, 
Tell  Him  I  tried  to  save  you. 

SIR  PETER. 

O !  my  lord, 

I  cannot  say  this  is  as  good  as  life, 
But  yet  it  makes  me  feel  far  happier  now, 
And  if  at  all,  after  a  thousand  years, 
I  see  God's  face,  I  will  speak  loud  and  bold, 
And  tell  Him  you  were  kind,  and  like  Himself ; 
Sir,  may  God  bless  you ! 

Did  you  note  how  I 

Fell  weeping  just  now  ?  pray  you,  do  not  think 
That  Lambert's  taunts  did  this,  I  hardly  heard 
The  base  things  that  he  said,  being  deep  in  thought 
Of  all  things  that  have  happen'd  since  I  was 
A  little  child ;  and  so  at  last  I  thought 
Of  my  true  lady :  truly,  sir,  it  seem'd 
No  longer  gone  than  yesterday,  that  this 
Was  the  sole  reason  God  let  me  be  born 
Twenty-five  years  ago,  that  I  might  love 
Her,  my  sweet  lady,  and  be  loved  by  her ; 


40  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

This  seem'd  so  yesterday,  to-day  death  comes, 
And  is  so  bitter  strong,  I  cannot  see 
Why  I  was  born. 

But  as  a  last  request, 

I  pray  you,  0  kind  Clisson,  send  some  man, 
Some  good  man,  mind  you,  to  say  how  I  died, 
And  take  my  last  love  to  her :  fare-you-well, 
And  may  God  keep  you  ;  I  must  go  now,  lest 
I  grow  too  sick  with  thinking  on  these  things ; 
Likewise  my  feet  are  wearied  of  the  earth, 
From  whence  I  shall  be  lifted  upright  soon.    [J.s  he  goes. 

Ah  me  !  shamed  too,  I  wept  at  fear  of  death ; 
And  yet  not  so,  I  only  wept  because 
There  was  no  beautiful  lady  to  kiss  me 
Before  I  died,  and  sweetly  wish  good  speed 
Prom  her  dear  lips.     0  for  some  lady,  though 
I  saw  her  ne'er  before ;  Alice,  my  love, 
I  do  not  ask  for ;  Clisson  was  right  kind, 
If  he  had  been  a  woman,  I  should  die 
Without  this  sickness :  but  I  am  all  wrong, 
So  wrong  and  hopelessly  afraid  to  die. 
There,  I  will  go. 

My  God !  how  sick  I  am, 
If  only  she  could  come  and  kiss  me  now. 

The  Hotel  de  la  Barde,  Bordeaux. 

The  LADY  ALICE  DE  LA  BARDE,  looking  out  of  a 
window  into  the  street. 

No  news  yet !  surely,  still  he  holds  his  own : 

That  garde  stands  well ;  I  mind  me  passing  it 

Some  months  ago ;  God  grant  the  walls  are  strong ! 

I  heard  some  knights  say  something  yestereve, 

I  tried  hard  to  forget :  words  far  apart 

Struck  on  my  heart  something  like  this ;  one  said, 

"  What  eh !  a  Gascon  with  an  English  name, 

Harpdon  ?  "  then  nought,  but  afterwards,  "  Poictou." 

As  one  who  answers  to  a  question  ask'd, 

Then  carelessly  regretful  came,  "  No,  no," 

Whereto  in  answer  loud  and  eagerly, 

One  said,  "  Impossible  !     Christ,  what  foul  play  ! " 


SIR  PETER  HARP  DON'S  END.  41 

And  went  off  angrily ;  and  while  thenceforth 

I  hurried  gaspingly  afraid,  I  heard, 

"  Guesclin  " ;  "  Five  thousand  men-at-arms  "  ;  "  Clisson." 

My  heart  misgives  me  it  is  all  in  vain 

I  send  these  succours ;  and  in  good  time  there ! 

Their  trumpet  sounds,  ah !  here  they  are ;  good  knights, 

God  up  in  Heaven  keep  you. 

If  they  come 

And  find  him  prisoner  —  for  I  can't  believe 
Guesclin  will  slay  him,  even  though  they  storm  — 
(The  last  horse  turns  the  corner.) 

God  in  Heaven ! 

What  have  I  got  to  thinking  of  at  last ! 
That  thief  I  will  not  name  is  with  Guesclin, 
Who  loves  him  for  his  lands.     My  love !  my  love ! 
O,  if  I  lose  you  after  all  the  past, 
What  shall  I  do  ? 

I  cannot  bear  the  noise 

And  light  street  out  there,  with  this  thought  alive, 
Like  any  curling  snake  within  my  brain ; 
Let  me  just  hide  my  head  within  these  soft 
Deep  cushions,  there  to  try  and  think  it  out. 

\Lying  in  the  window-seat. 
I  cannot  hear  much  noise  now,  and  I  think 
That  I  shall  go  to  sleep :  it  all  sounds  dim 
And  faint,  and  I  shall  soon  forget  most  things ; 
Yea,  almost  that  I  am  alive  and  here ; 
It  goes  slow,  comes  slow,  like  a  big  mill-wheel 
On  some  broad  stream,  with  long  green  weeds  a-sway, 
And  soft  and  slow  it  rises  and  it  falls, 
Still  going  onward. 

Lying  so,  one  kiss, 
And  I  should  be  in  Avalon  asleep, 
Among  the  poppies,  and  the  yellow  flowers ; 
And  they  should  brush  my  cheek,  my  hair  being  spread 
Far  out  among  the  stems ;  soft  mice  and  small 
Eating  and  creeping  all  about  my  feet, 
Red  shod  and  tired ;  and  the  flies  should  come 
Creeping  o'er  my  broad  eyelids  unafraid ; 
And  there  should  be  a  noise  of  water  going, 
Clear  blue,  fresh  water  breaking  on  the  slates, 
Likewise  the  flies  should  creep  —  God's  eyes !  God  help, 
A  trumpet  ?  I  will  run  fast,  leap  adown 


42  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

The  slippery  sea-stairs,  where  the  crabs  fight. 

Aht 

I  was  half  dreaming,  but  the  trumpet 's  true ; 
He  stops  here  at  our  house.     The  Clisson  arms  ? 
Ah,  now  for  news.     But  I  must  hold  my  heart, 
And  be  quite  gentle  till  he  is  gone  out ; 
And  afterwards,  —  but  he  is  still  alive, 
He  must  be  still  alive. 

Enter  a  SQUIRE  O/CLISSON'S. 

Good  day,  fair  sir, 
I  give  you  welcome,  knowing  whence  you  come. 

SQUIRE. 

My  Lady  Alice  de  la  Barde,  I  come 

From  Oliver  Clisson,  knight  and  mighty  lord, 

Bringing  you  tidings :  I  make  bold  to  hope 

You  will  not  count  me  villain,  even  if 

They  wring  your  heart ;  nor  hold  me  still  in  hate. 

For  I  am  but  a  mouthpiece  after  all, 

A  mouthpiece,  too,  of  one  who  wishes  well 

To  you  and  yours. 

ALICE. 

Can  you  talk  faster,  sir, 
Get  over  all  this  quicker  ?  fix  your  eyes 
On  mine,  I  pray  you,  and  whate'er  you  see 
Still  go  on  talking  fast,  unless  I  fall, 
Or  bid  you  stop. 

SQUIRE. 

I  pray  your  pardon  then, 
And,  looking  in  your  eyes,  fair  lady,  say 
I  am  unhappy  that  your  knight  is  dead. 
Take  heart,  and  listen !  let  me  tell  you  all. 
We  were  five  thousand  goodly  men-at-arms, 
And  scant  five  hundred  had  he  in  that  hold ; 
His  rotten  sand-stone  walls  were  wet  with  rain, 
And  fell  in  lumps  wherever  a  stone  hit; 
Yet  for  three  days  about  the  barrier  there 
The  deadly  glaives  were  gather'd,  laid  across, 
And  push'd  and  pull'd ;  the  fourth  our  engines  came  j 
But  still  amid  the  crash  of  falling  walls, 


SIR  PETER  HARPDON'S  END.  43 

And  roar  of  lombards,  rattle  of  hard  bolts, 

The  steady  bow-strings  flash'd,  and  still  stream'd  out 

St.  George's  banner,  and  the  seven  swords, 

And  still  they  cried,  "  St.  George  Guienne  ! "  until 

Their  walls  were  flat  as  Jericho's  of  old, 

And  our  rush  came,  and  cut  them  from  the  keep. 

ALICE. 

Stop,  sir,  and  tell  me  if  you  slew  him  then, 
And  where  he  died,  if  you  can  really  mean 
That  Peter  Harpdon,  the  good  knight,  is  dead  ? 

SQUIRE. 
Fair  lady,  in  the  base-court — 

ALICE. 

What  base-court  ? 

What  do  you  talk  of  ?    Nay,  go  on,  go  on ; 
'T  was  only  something  gone  within  my  head : 
Do  you  not  know,  one  turns  one's  head  round  quick, 
And  something  cracks  there  with  sore  pain  ?  go  on, 
And  still  look  at  my  eyes. 

SQUIRE. 

Almost  alone, 

There  in  the  base-court  fought  he  with  his  sword, 
Using  his  left  hand  much,  more  than  the  wont 
Of  most  knights  now-a-days ;  our  men  gave  back, 
For  wheresoever  he  hit  a  downright  blow, 
Some  one  fell  bleeding,  for  no  plate  could  hold 
Against  the  sway  of  body  and  great  arm ; 
Till  he  grew  tired,  and  some  man  (no !  not  I, 
I  swear  not  I,  fair  lady,  as  I  live ! ) 
Thrust  at  him  with  a  glaive  between  the  knees, 
And  threw  him ;  down  he  fell,  sword  undermost ; 
Many  fell  on  him,  crying  out  their  cries, 
Tore  his  sword  from  him,  tore  his  helm  off,  and  — 

ALICE. 

Yea,  slew  him ;  I  am  much  too  young  to  live, 
Fair  God,  so  let  me  die. 


44  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

You  have  done  well, 

Done  all  your  message  gently,  pray  you  go, 
Our  knights  will  make  you  cheer ;   moreover,  take 
This  bag  of  franks  for  your  expenses.    [  The  SQUIRE  Jcneels. 

But 

You  do  not  go  ;  still  looking  at  my  face, 
You  kneel !  what,  squire,  do  you  mock  me  then? 
You  need  not  tell  me  who  has  set  you  on, 
But  tell  me  only,  't  is  a  made-up  tale. 
You  are  some  lover  may-be,  or  his  friend ; 
Sir,  if  you  loved  me  once,  or  your  friend  loved, 
Think,  is  it  not  enough  that  I  kneel  down 
And  kiss  your  feet?  your  jest  will  be  right  good 
If  you  give  in  now,  carry  it  too  far, 
And  't  will  be  cruel ;  not  yet  ?  but  you  weep 
Almost,  as  though  you  loved  me ;  love  me  then, 
And  go  to  Heaven  by  telling  all  your  sport, 
And  I  will  kiss  you  then  with  all  my  heart, 
Upon  the  mouth ;  0 !  what  can  I  do  then 
To  move  you  ? 

SQUIRE. 

Lady  fair,  forgive  me  still ! 
You  know  I  am  so  sorry,  but  my  tale 
Is  not  yet  finish'd : 

So  they  bound  his  hands, 

And  brought  him  tall  and  pale  to  G-uesclin's  tent, 
Who,  seeing  him,  leant  his  head  upon  his  hand, 
And  ponder'd  somewhile,  afterwards,  looking  up  — 
Fair  dame,  what  shall  I  say  ? 

ALICE. 

Yea,  I  know  now, 
Good  squire,  you  may  go  now  with  my  thanks. 

SQUIRE. 

Yet,  lady,  for  your  own  sake  I  say  this, 

Yea,  for  my  own  sake,  too,  and  Clisson's  sake. 

When  Guesclin  told  him  he  must  be  hanged  soon, 

Within  a  while  he  lifted  up  his  head 

And  spoke  for  his  own  life ;  not  crouching,  though, 

As  abjectly  afraid  to  die,  nor  yet 


SIR  PETER  HARPDON'S  END.  45 

Sullenly  brave  as  many  a  thief  will  die ; 

Nor  yet  as  one  that  plays  at  japes  with  God : 

Few  words  he  spoke ;  not  so  much  what  he  said 

Moved  us,  I  think,  as,  saying  it,  there  played 

Strange  tenderness  from  that  big  soldier  there 

About  his  pleading ;  eagerness  to  live 

Because  folk  loved  him,  and  he  loved  them  back, 

And  many  gallant  plans  unfinish'd  now 

For  ever.     Clisson' s  heart,  which  may  God  bless ! 

Was  moved  to  pray  for  him,  but  all  in  vain ; 

Wherefore  I  bring  this  message  : 

That  he  waits, 

Still  loving  you,  within  the  little  church 
Whose  windows,  with  the  one  eye  of  the  light 
Over  the  altar,  every  night  behold 
The  great  dim  broken  walls  he  strove  to  keep ! 

There  my  Lord  Clisson  did  his  burial  well. 
Now,  lady,  I  will  go ;  God  give  you  rest ! 

ALICE. 

Thank  Clisson  from  me,  squire,  and  farewell ! 
And  now  to  keep  myself  from  going  mad. 
Christ !  I  have  been  a  many  times  to  church, 
And,  ever  since  my  mother  taught  me  prayers, 
Have  used  them  daily,  but  to-day  I  wish 
To  pray  another  way ;  come  face  to  face, 

0  Christ,  that  I  may  clasp  your  knees  and  pray, 

1  know  not  what,  at  any  rate  come  now 
From  one  of  many  places  where  you  are ; 
Either  in  Heaven  amid  thick  angel  wings, 
Or  sitting  on  the  altar  strange  with  gems, 
Or  high  up  in  the  duskness  of  the  apse ; 
Let  us  go,  You  and  I,  a  long  way  off, 

To  the  little  damp,  dark,  Poitevin  church ; 
While  you  sit  on  the  coffin  in  the  dark, 
Will  I  lie  down,  my  face  on  the  bare  stone 
Between  your  feet,  and  chatter  anything 
I  have  heard  long  ago,  what  matters  it 
So  I  may  keep  you  there,  your  solemn  face 
And  long  hair  even-flowing  on  each  side, 
Until  you  love  me  well  enough  to  speak, 


46  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

And  give  me  comfort ;  yea,  till  o'er  your  chin, 
And  cloven  red  beard  the  great  tears  roll  down 
In  pity  for  my  misery,  and  I  die, 
Kissed  over  by  you. 

Eh  Guesclin !  if  I  were 

Like  Countess  Mountfort  now,  that  kiss'd  the  knight, 
Across  the  salt  sea  come  to  fight  for  her ; 
Ah !  just  to  go  about  with  many  knights, 
Wherever  you  went,  and  somehow  on  one  day, 
In  a  thick  wood  to  catch  you  off  your  guard, 
Let  you  find,  you  and  your  some  fifty  friends, 
Nothing  but  arrows  wheresoe'er  you  turn'd, 
Yea,  and  red  crosses,  great  spears  over  them ; 
And  so,  between  a  lane  of  my  true  men, 
To  walk  up  pale  and  stern  and  tall,  and  with 
My  arms  on  my  surcoat,  and  his  therewith 
And  then  to  make  you  kneel,  0  knight  Guesclin ; 
And  then  —  alas  !  alas !  when  all  is  said, 
What  could  I  do  but  let  you  go  again, 
Being  pitiful  woman  ?     I  get  no  revenge, 
Whatever  happens ;  and  I  get  no  comfort, 
I  am  but  weak,  and  cannot  move  my  feet, 
But  as  men  bid  me. 

Strange  I  do  not  die. 
Suppose  this  has  not  happen'd  after  all ; 
I  will  lean  out  again  and  watch  for  news. 

I  wonder  how  long  I  can  still  feel  thus, 

As  though  I  watch'd  for  news,  feel  as  I  did 

Just  half-an-hour  ago,  before  this  news. 

How  all  the  street  is  humming,  some  men  sing, 

And  some  men  talk ;  some  look  up  at  the  house, 

Then  lay  their  heads  together  and  look  grave ; 

Their  laughter  pains  me  sorely  in  the  heart, 

Their  thoughtful  talking  makes  my  head  turn  round, 

Yea,  some  men  sing,  what  is  it  then  they  sing  ? 

Eh  Launcelot,  and  love  and  fate  and  death ; 

They  ought  to  sing  of  him  who  was  as  wight 

As  Launcelot  or  Wade,  and  yet  avail'd 

Just  nothing,  but  to  fail  and  fail  and  fail, 

And  so  at  last  to  die  and  leave  me  here, 

Alone  and  wretched ;  yea,  perhaps  they  will, 

When  many  years  are  past,  make  songs  of  us ; 


SIR  PETER  HARPDON'S  END.  47 

God  help  me,  though,  truly  I  never  thought 
That  I  should  make  a  story  in  this  way, 
A  story  that  his  eyes  can  never  see. 


[One  sings  from  outside.'] 

Therefore  be  it  believed 
Wliatsoever  he  grieved, 
Wlien  his  horse  was  relieved, 
TJiis  Launcelot, 

Beat  down  on  his  knee, 
Right  valiant  was  he 
God's  body  to  see, 
Though  he  saw  it  not. 

Right  valiant  to  move, 
But  for  his  sad  love 
Tfie  high  God  above 
Stinted  his  praise. 

Yet  so  he  was  glad 
That  his  son  Lord  Galahad 
That  high  joyaunce  had 
All  his  life-days. 

Sing  we  therefore  then 
Launcelot's  praise  again, 
For  he  wan  crownes  ten, 
If  he  wan  not  twelve. 

To  his  death  from  his  birth 
He  was  mickle  of  worth, 
Lay  him  in  the  cold  earth, 
A  long  grave  ye  may  delve. 

Omnes  homines  benedicite  ! 
This  lastfitte  ye  may  see, 
All  men  pray  for  me, 
Who  made  this  history 
Cunning  and  fairly. 


48  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 


EAPUNZEL.4 

THE  PRINCE,  being  in  the  wood  near  the  tower,  in  the 
evening. 

I  COULD  not  even  think 
What  made  me  weep  that  day, 
When  out  of  the  council-hall 
The  courtiers  pass'd  away,  — 

THE  WITCH. 

Eapunzel,  Eapunzel, 
Let  down  your  hair ! 

EAPUNZEL. 

Is  it  not  true  that  every  day 
She  climbeth  up  the  same  strange  way, 
Her  scarlet  cloak  spread  broad  and  gay 
Over  my  golden  hair  ? 

THE  PRINCE. 

And  left  me  there  alone, 

To  think  on  what  they  said ; 
"  Thou  art  a  king's  own  son, 
'T  is  fit  that  thou  shouldst  wed." 

THE  WITCH. 

Rapunzel,  Eapunzel, 
Let  down  your  hair ! 

EAPUNZEL. 

When  I  undo  the  knotted  mass, 
Fathoms  below  the  shadows  pass 
Over  my  hair  along  the  grass. 
O  my  golden  hair  ! 


RAPUNZEL.  49 

THE  PBINCB. 

I  put  my  armour  on, 

Thinking  on  what  they  said ; 
"Thou  art  a  king's  own  son, 

'T  is  fit  that  thou  shouldst  wed," 

THE  WITCH. 

x 

Rapunzel,  Rapunzel, 
Let  down  your  hair ! 

RAPTUJZEL. 

See  on  the  marble  parapet, 
I  lean  my  brow,  strive  to  forget 
That  fathoms  below  my  hair  grows  wet 
With  the  dew,  my  golden  hair. 

THE  PKIXCE. 

I  rode  throughout  the  town, 

Men  did  not  bow  the  head, 
Though  I  was  the  king's  own  son ; 

"  He  rides  to  dream,"  they  said. 

THE  WITCH. 

Rapunzel,  Rapunzel, 
Wind  up  your  hair  1 

RAPUXZEL. 

4 

See  on  the  marble  parapet, 
The  faint  red  stains  with  tears  are  wet ; 
The  long  years  pass,  no  help  comes  yet 
To  free  my  golden  hair. 

THE  PBINCE. 

For  leagues  and  leagues  I  rode, 

Till  hot  my  armour  grew, 
Till  underneath  the  leaves 

I  felt  the  evening  dew. 


50  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

THE  WITCH. 

Kapunzel,  Eapunzel, 
Weep  through  your  hair ! 

EAPUNZEL. 

And  yet  —  but  I  am  growing  old, 
For  want  of  love  my  heart  is  cold, 
Years  pass,  the  while  I  loose  and  fold 
The  fathoms  of  my  hair. 

THE  PRINCE,  in  the  morning. 

I  have  heard  tales  of  men,  who  in  the  night 

Saw  paths  of  stars  let  down  to  earth  from  heaven, 

Who  follow'd  them  until  they  reach'd  the  light 
Wherein  they  dwell,  whose  sins  are  all  forgiven ; 

But  who  went  backward  when  they  saw  the  gate 

Of  diamond,  nor  dared  to  enter  in ; 
All  their  life  long  they  were  content  to  wait, 

Purging  them  patiently  of  every  sin. 

I  must  have  had  a  dream  of  some  such  thing, 
And  now  am  just  awaking  from  that  dream ; 

For  even  in  grey  dawn  those  strange  words  ring 
Through  heart  and  brain,  and  still  I  see  that  gleam. 

For  in  my  dream  at  sunset-time  I  lay 

Beneath  these  beeches,  mail  and  helmet  off, 

Eight  full  of  joy  that  I  had  come  away 
From  court ;  for  I  was  patient  of  the  scoff 

That  met  me  always  there  from  day  to  day, 
From  any  knave  or  coward  of  them  all ; 

I  was  content  to  live  that  wretched  way ; 
For  truly  till  I  left  the  council-hall, 

And  rode  forth  arm'd  beneath  the  burning  sun, 
My  gleams  of  happiness  were  faint  and  few, 

But  then  I  saw  my  real  life  had  begun, 
And  that  I  should  be  strong  quite  well  I  knew. 


RAPUNZEL.  51 

For  I  was  riding  out  to  look  for  love, 

Therefore  the  birds  within  the  thickets  sung, 

Even  in  hot  noontide ;  as  I  pass'd,  above 

The  elms  o'ersway'd  with  longing  towards  me  hung. 

Now  some  few  fathoms  from  the  place  where  I 
Lay  in  the  beech-wood,  was  a  tower  fair, 

The  marble  corners  faint  against  the  sky ; 
And  dreamily  I  wonder'd  what  lived  there : 

Because  it  seem'd  a  dwelling  for  a  queen, 
No  belfry  for  the  swinging  of  great  bells ; 

No  bolt  or  stone  had  ever  crush'd  the  green 
Shafts,  amber  and  rose  walls,  no  soot  that  tells 

Of  the  Norse  torches  burning  up  the  roofs, 
On  the  flower-carven  marble  could  I  see ; 

But  rather  on  all  sides  I  saw  the  proofs 
Of  a  great  loneliness  that  sicken'd  me ; 

Making  me  feel  a  doubt  that  was  not  fear, 

Whether  my  whole  life  long  had  been  a  dream, 

And  I  should  wake  up  soon  in  some  place,  where 
The  piled-up  arms  of  the  fighting  angels  gleam ; 

INot  born  as  yet,  but  going  to  be  born, 

No  naked  baby  as  I  was  at  first, 
But  an  armed  knight,  whom  fire,  hate  and  scorn 

Could  turn  from  nothing :  my  heart  almost  burst 

Beneath  the  beeches,  as  I  lay  a-dreaming, 
I  tried  so  hard  to  read  this  riddle  through, 

To  catch  some  golden  cord  that  I  saw  gleaming 
Like  gossamer  against  the  autumn  blue. 

But  while  I  ponder'd  these  things,  from  the  wood 
There  came  a  black-hair'd  woman,  tall  and  bold, 

Who  strode  straight  up  to  where  the  tower  stood, 
And  cried  out  shrilly  words,  whereon  behold  — 

THE  WITCH,  from  the  tower. 

Rapunzel,  Eapunzel, 
Let  down  your  hair ! 


52  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

THE  PRINCE. 

Ah  Christ !  it  was  no  dream  then,  but  there  stood 
(She  comes  again)  a  maiden  passing  fair, 

Against  the  roof,  with  face  turn'd  to  the  wood, 
Bearing  within  her  arms  waves  of  her  yellow  hair. 

I  read  my  riddle  when  I  saw  her  stand, 

Poor  love !  her  face  quite  pale  against  her  hair, 

Praying  to  all  the  leagues  of  empty  land 
To  save  her  from  the  woe  she  suffer'd  there. 

To  think !  they  trod  upon  her  golden  hair 
In  the  witches'  sabbaths ;  it  was  a  delight 

For  these  foul  things,  while  she,  with  thin  feet  bare, 
Stood  on  the  roof  upon  the  winter  night, 

To  plait  her  dear  hair  into  many  plaits, 

And  then,  while  God's  eye  look'd  upon  the  thing, 

In  the  very  likenesses  of  Devil's  bats, 
Upon  the  ends  of  her  long  hair  to  swing. 

And  now  she  stood  above  the  parapet, 

And,  spreading  out  her  arms,  let  her  hair  flow, 

Beneath  that  veil  her  smooth  white  forehead  set 
Upon  the  marble,  more  I  do  not  know ; 

Because  before  my  eyes  a  film  of  gold 

Floated,  as  now  it  floats.     0  unknown  love, 

Would  that  I  could  thy  yellow  stair  behold, 
If  still  thou  standest  the  lead  roof  above ! 

THE  WITCH,  as  she  passes. 

Is  there  any  who  will  dare 
To  climb  up  the  yellow  stair, 
Glorious  Eapunzel's  golden  hair  ? 

THE  PRINCE. 

If  it  would  please  God  make  you  sing  again, 
I  think  that  I  might  very  sweetly  die, 

My  soul  somehow  reach  heaven  in  joyous  pain, 
My  heavy  body  on  the  beech-nuts  lie. 


RAPUNZEL.  53 

Now  I  remember ;  what  a  most  strange  year, 
Most  strange  and  awful,  in  the  beechen  wood 

I  have  pass'd  now ;  I  still  have  a  faint  fear 
It  is  a  kind  of  dream  not  understood. 

I  have  seen  no  one  in  this  wood  except 

The  witch  and  her ;  have  heard  no  human  tones, 

But  when  the  witches'  revelry  has  crept 
Between  the  very  jointing  of  my  bones. 

Ah !  I  know  now ;  I  could  not  go  away, 

But  needs  must  stop  to  hear  her  sing  that  song 

She  always  sings  at  dawning  of  the  day. 
I  am  not  happy  here,  for  I  am  strong, 

And  every  morning  do  I  whet  my  sword, 
Yet  Eapunzel  still  weeps  within  the  tower, 

And  still  God  ties  me  down  to  the  green  sward, 
Because  I  cannot  see  the  gold  stair  floating  lower. 

EAPUNZEL  sings  from  the  tower. 

My  mother  taught  me  prayers 

To  say  when  I  had  need ; 

I  have  so  many  cares, 

That  I  can  take  no  heed 

Of  many  words  in  them ; 

But  I  remember  this : 

Christ,  bring  me  to  thy  bliss. 

Mary,  maid  withouten  wem, 

Keep  me  !    I  am  lone,  I  wis, 

Yet  besides  I  have  made  this 

By  myself :  Give  me  a  kiss, 

Dear  God,  dwelling  up  in  heaven  I 

Also :  Send  me  a  true  knight, 

Lord  CJirist,  with  a  steel  sword,  bright. 

Broad,  and  trenchant ;  yea,  and  seven 

Spans  from  hilt  to  point,  0  Lord! 

And  let  the  handle  of  his  sword 

Be  gold  on  silver,  Lord  in  heaven  ! 

Such  a  sword  as  I  see  gleam 

Sometimes,  when  they  let  me  dream. 


54        EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

Yea,  besides,  I  have  made  this: 
Lord,  give  Mary  a  dear  kiss, 
And  let  gold  Michael,  who  looked  down, 
When  I  was  there,  on  Rouen  toivn 
From  the  spire,  bring  me  that  Jciss 
On  a  lily  !    Lord,  do  this  I 

These  prayers  on  the  dreadful  nights, 
When  the  witches  plait  my  hair, 
And  the  fearfullest  of  sights 
On  the  earth  and  in  the  air, 
Will  not  let  me  close  my  eyes, 
I  murmur  often,  rnix'd  with  sighs, 
That  my  weak  heart  will  not  hold 
At  some  things  that  I  behold. 
Nay,  not  sighs,  but  quiet  groans, 
That  swell  out  the  little  bones 
Of  my  bosom ;  till  a  trance 
God  sends  in  middle  of  that  dance, 
And  I  behold  the  countenance 
Of  Michael,  and  can  feel  no  more 
The  bitter  east  wind  biting  sore 
My  naked  feet ;  can  see  no  more 
The  crayfish  on  the  leaden  floor, 
That  mock  with  feeler  and  grim  claw. 

Yea,  often  in  that  happy  trance, 
Beside  the  blessed  countenance 
Of  golden  Michael,  on  the  spire 
Glowing  all  crimson  in  the  fire 
Of  sunset,  I  behold  a  face, 
Which  sometime,  if  God  give  me  grace, 
May  kiss  me  in  this  very  place. 


Evening  in  the  Tower. 

KAPUNZEL. 

It  grows  half  way  between  the  dark  and  light ; 

Love,  we  have  been  six  hours  here  alone, 
I  fear  that  she  will  come  before  the  night, 

And  if  she  finds  us  thus  we  are  undone. 


RAPUNZEL.  55 

THE  PRIXCE. 

Nay,  draw  a  little  nearer,  that  your  breath 

May  touch  my  lips,  let  ray  cheek  feel  your  arm ; 

Now  tell  me,  did  you  ever  see  a  death, 
Or  ever  see  a  man  take  mortal  harm  ? 

RAPUNZEL. 

Once  came  two  knights  and  fought  with  swords  below, 
And  while  they  fought  I  scarce  could  look  at  all, 

My  head  swam  so  ;  after,  a  moaning  low 
Drew  my  eyes  down ;  I  saw  against  the  wall 

One  knight  lean  dead,  bleeding  from  head  and  breast, 
Yet  seem'd  it  like  a  line  of  poppies  red 

In  the  golden  twilight,  as  he  took  his  rest, 
In  the  dusky  time  he  scarcely  seemed  dead. 

But  the  other,  on  his  face  six  paces  off, 
Lay  moaning,  and  the  old  familiar  name 

He  mutter'd  through  the  grass,  seem'd  like  a  scoff 
Of  some  lost  soul  remembering  his  past  fame. 

His  helm  all  dinted  lay  beside  him  there, 

The  visor-bars  were  twisted  towards  the  face, 

The  crest,  which  was  a  lady  very  fair, 

Wrought  wonderfully,  was  shifted  from  its  place. 

The  shower'd  mail-rings  on  the  speed-walk  lay, 
Perhaps  my  eyes  were  dazzled  with  the  light 

That  blazed  in  the  west,  yet  surely  on  that  day 

Some  crimson  thing  had  changed  the   grass   from 
bright 

Pure  green  I  love  so.     But  the  knight  who  died 
Lay  there  for  days  after  the  other  went ; 

Until  one  day  I  heard  a  voice  that  cried, 
"  Fair  knight,  I  see  Sir  Robert  we  were  sent 

"  To  carry  dead  or  living  to  the  king." 

So  the  knights  came  and  bore  him  straight  away 

On  their  lance  truncheons,  such  a  batter'd  thing, 
His  mother  had  not  known  him  on  that  day, 


56  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

But  for  his  helm-crest,  a  gold  lady  fair 
Wrought  wonderfully. 

THE  PRINCE. 

Ah,  they  were  brothers  then, 
And  often  rode  together,  doubtless  where 

The  swords  were  thickest,  and  were  loyal  men, 

Until  they  fell  in  these  same  evil  dreams. 

RAPUNZEL 

Yea,  love ;  but  shall  we  not  depart  from  hence  ? 
The  white  moon  groweth  golden  fast,  and  gleams 
Between  the  aspen  stems ;  I  fear  —  and  yet  a  sense 

Of  fluttering  victory  comes  over  me, 

That  will  not  let  me  fear  aright ;  my  heart  — 

Feel  how  it  beats,  love,  strives  to  get  to  thee, 
I  breathe  so  fast  that  my  lips  needs  must  part ; 

Your  breath  swims  round  my  mouth,  but  let  us  go. 

THE  PRINCE. 

I,  Sebald,  also,  pluck  from  off  the  staff 
The  crimson  banner,  let  it  lie  below, 
Above  it  in  the  wind  let  grasses  laugh. 

Now  let  us  go,  love,  down  the  winding  stair, 
With  fingers  intertwined :  ay,  feel  my  sword ! 

I  wrought  it  long  ago,  with  golden  hair 
Flowing  about  the  hilts,  because  a  word, 

Sung  by  a  minstrel  old,  had  set  me  dreaming 
Of  a  sweet  bow'd  down  face  with  yellow  hair. 

Betwixt  green  leaves  I  used  to  see  it  gleaming, 
A  half  smile  on  the  lips,  though  lines  of  care 

Had  sunk  the  cheeks,  and  made  the  great  eyes  hollow; 

What  other  work  in  all  the  world  had  I, 
But  through  all  turns  of  fate  that  face  to  follow  ? 

But  wars  and  business  kept  me  there  to  die. 


RAPUNZEL.  57 

O  child,  I  should  have  slain  my  brother,  too, 
My  brother,  Love,  lain  moaning  in  the  grass, 

Had  I  not  ridden  out  to  look  for  you, 

When  I  had  watch'd  the  gilded  courtiers  pass 

From  the  golden  hall.     But  it  is  strange  your  name 
Is  not  the  same  the  minstrel  sung  of  yore ; 

You  call'd  it  Rapunzel,  't  is  not  the  name. 

See,  love,  the  stems  shine  through  the  open  door. 

Morning  in  the  Woods. 

KAPUNZEL. 

O  love !  me  and  my  unknown  name  you  have  well  won ; 

The  witch's  name  was  Rapunzel :  eh !  not  so  sweet  ? 
No !  —  but  is  this  real  grass,  love,  that  I  tread  upon  ? 

What  call  they  these  blue  flowers  that  lean  across  my 
feet? 

THE  PRINCE. 

Dip  down  your  dear  face  in  the  dewy  grass,  0  love ! 

And  ever  let  the  sweet  slim  harebells,  tenderly  hung, 
Kiss  both  your  parted  lips ;  and  I  will  hang  above, 

And  try  to  sing  that  song  the  dreamy  harper  sung. 

He  sings. 

'Twixt  the  sunlight  and  the  shade 
Float  up  memories  of  my  maid, 

God,  remember  Guendolen ! 

Gold  or  gems  she  did  not  wear, 
But  her  yellow  rippled  hair, 

Like  a  veil,  hid  Guendolen ! 

'Twixt  the  sunlight  and  the  shade, 
My  rough  hands  so  strangely  made, 
Folded  Golden  Guendolen ; 

Hands  used  to  grip  the  sword-hilt  hard, 
Framed  her  face,  while  on  the  sward 

Tears  fell  down  from  Guendolen. 


58  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

Guendolen  now  speaks  no  word, 
Hands  fold  round  about  the  sword. 
Now  no  more  of  Guendolen. 

Only  'twixt  the  light  and  shade 
Floating  memories  of  my  maid 

Make  me  pray  for  Guendolen. 

GUENDOLEN. 

I  kiss  thee,  new-found  name ;  but  I  will  never  go : 

Your  hands  need  never  grip  the  hammer' d  sword  again, 

But  all  my  golden  hair  shall  ever  round  you  flow, 

Between  the  light  and  shade  from  Golden  Guendolen. 

Afterwards,  in  the  Palace. 

KING  SEBALD. 
I  took  my  armour  off, 
Put  on  king's  robes  of  gold ; 
Over  the  kirtle  green 
The  gold  fell  fold  on  fold. 

THE  WITCH,  out  ofhett. 

Guendolen!  Guendolen! 
One  lock  of  hair  I 

GUENDOLEN. 

I  am  so  glad,  for  every  day 
He  kisses  me  much  the  same  way 
As  in  the  tower  :  under  the  sway 
Of  all  my  golden  hair. 

KING  SEBALD. 

We  rode  throughout  the  town, 

A  gold  crown  on  my  head, 
Through  all  the  gold-hung  streets, 

"Praise  God  !  "  the  people  said. 

THE  WITCH. 

Guendolen  I     Guendolen  / 
Lend  me  your  hair  I 


CONCERNING   GEFFRAY  TESTE  NOIRE.     59 

GUENDOLEN. 

Verily,  I  seem  like  one 
Who,  when  day  is  almost  done, 
Through  a  thick  wood  meets  the  sun 
That  blazes  in  her  hair. 

KING  SEBALD. 

Yea,  at  the  palace  gates, 

"Praise  God !  "  the  great  knights  said, 
"  For  Sebald  the  high  king, 

And  the  lady's  golden  head." 

THE  WITCH. 

Woe  is  me  !  Guendolen 
back  her  hair. 


GUENDOLEN. 

Nothing  wretched  now,  no  screams ; 
I  was  unhappy  once  in  dreams, 
And  even  now  a  harsh  voice  seems 
To  hang  about  my  hair. 

THE  WITCH. 
WOE  !  THAT  ANY  MAN  COULD  DARE 

TO    CLIMB    UP   THE   YELLOW   STAIR, 

GLORIOUS  GUENDOLEN'S  GOLDEN  HAIR. 


CONCEKNING  GEFFKAY  TESTE  NOIEE." 

AND  if  you  meet  the  Canon  of  Chimay, 

As  going  to  Ortaise  you  well  may  do, 
Greet  him  from  John  of  Castel  Neuf,  and  say, 

All  that  I  tell  you,  for  all  this  is  true. 

This  Geffray  Teste  Noire  was  a  Gascon  thief, 
Who,  under  shadow  of  the  English  name, 

Pilled  all  such  towns  and  countries  as  were  lief 
To  King  Charles  and  St.  Denis ;  thought  it  blame 


60  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

If  anything  escaped  him ;  so  my  lord, 

The  Duke  of  Berry,  sent  Sir  John  Bonne  Lance, 

And  other  knights,  good  players  with  the  sword, 
To  check  this  thief,  and  give  the  land  a  chance. 

Therefore  we  set  our  bastides  round  the  tower 
That  Geffray  held,  the  strong  thief !  like  a  king, 

High  perch'd  upon  the  rock  of  Ventadour, 

Hopelessly  strong,  by  Christ !  it  was  mid  spring, 

When  first  I  joined  the  little  army  there 

With  ten  good  spears ;  Auvergne  is  hot,  each  day 

We  sweated  armed  before  the  barrier, 

Good  feats  of  arms  were  done  there  often — eh? 

Your  brother  was  slain  there  ?    I  mind  me  now 
A  right  good  man-at-arms,  God  pardon  him ! 

I  think  't  was  Geffray  smote  him  on  the  brow 
With  some  spiked  axe,  and  while  he  totter'd,  dim 

About  the  eyes,  the  spear  of  Alleyne  Koux 

Slipped  through  his  camaille  and  his  throat ;  well,  well ! 
Alleyne  is  paid  now ;  your  name  Alleyne  too  ? 

Mary !  how  strange  —  but  this  tale  I  would  tell  — 

For  spite  of  all  our  bastides,  damned  Blackhead 
Would  ride  abroad  whene'er  he  chose  to  ride, 

We  could  not  stop  him ;  many  a  burgher  bled 
Dear  gold  all  round  his  girdle ;  far  and  wide 

The  villaynes  dwelt  in  utter  misery 

'Twixt  us  and  thief  Sir  Geffray ;  hauled  this  way 
By  Sir  Bonne  Lance  at  one  time ;  he  gone  by, 

Down  comes  this  Teste  Noire  on  another  day. 

And  therefore  they  dig  up  the  stone,  grind  corn, 
Hew  wood,  draw  water,  yea,  they  lived,  in  short, 

As  I  said  just  now,  utterly  forlorn, 

Till  this  our  knave  and  blackhead  was  out-fought. 

So  Bonne  Lance  fretted,  thinking  of  some  trap 

Day  after  day,  till  on  a  time  he  said : 
"  John  of  Newcastle,  if  we  have  good  hap, 

We  catch  our  thief  in  two  days."     "  How  ?  "  I  said. 


CONCERNING   GEFFRAY  TESTS  NOIRE.     61 

"  Why,  Sir,  to-day  he  rideth  out  again, 

Hoping  to  take  well  certain  sumpter  mules 

From  Carcassonne,  going  with  little  train, 
Because,  forsooth,  he  thinketh  us  mere  fools ; 

"  But  if  we  set  an  ambush  in  some  wood, 
He  is  but  dead ;  so,  Sir,  take  thirty  spears 

To  Verville  forest,  if  it  seem  you  good." 
Then  felt  I  like  the  horse  in  Job,  who  hears 

The  dancing  trumpet  sound,  and  we  went  forth ; 

And  my  red  lion  on  the  spear-head  napped, 
As  faster  than  the  cool  wind  we  rode  North, 

Towards  the  wood  of  Verville ;  thus  it  happed. 

We  rode  a  soft  pace  on  that  day  while  spies 
Got  news  about  Sir  Geffray ;  the  red  wine 

Under  the  road-side  bush  was  clear ;  the  flies, 
The  dragon-flies  I  mind  me  most,  did  shine 

In  brighter  arms  than  ever  I  put  on ; 

So  —  "  Geffray,"  said  our  spies,  "  would  pass  that  way 
Next  day  at  sundown ; "  then  he  must  be  won ; 

And  so  we  enter'd  Verville  wood  next  day, 

In  the  afternoon ;  through  it  the  highway  runs, 

'Twixt  copses  of  green  hazel,  very  thick, 
And  underneath,  with  glimmering  of  suns, 

The  primroses  are  happy  ;  the  dews  lick 

The  soft  green  moss.     "  Put  cloths  about  your  arms, 
Lest  they  should  glitter ;  surely  they  will  go 

In  a  long  thin  line,  watchful  for  alarms, 
With  all  their  carriages  of  booty  ;  so,  — 

"  Lay  down  my  pennon  in  the  grass  —  Lord  God ! 

What  have  we  lying  here  ?  will  they  be  cold, 
I  wonder,  being  so  bare,  above  the  sod, 

Instead  of  under  ?     This  was  a  knight  too,  fold 

"  Lying  on  fold  of  ancient  rusted  mail ; 

No  plate  at  all,  gold  rowels  to  the  spurs, 
And  see  the  quiet  gleam  of  turquoise  pale 

Along  the  ceinture  ;  but  the  long  time  blurs 


62  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

"  Even  the  tinder  of  his  coat  to  nought, 

Except  these  scraps  of  leather ;  see  how  white 

The  skull  is,  loose  within  the  coif !     He  fought 
A  good  fight,  maybe,  ere  he  was  slain  quite. 

"No  armour  on  the  legs  too  ;  strange  in  faith  — 
A  little  skeleton  for  a  knight  though  —  ah ! 

This  one  is  bigger,  truly  without  scathe 

His  enemies  escaped  not  —  ribs  driven  out  far  — 

"  That  must  have  reach'd  the  heart,  I  doubt  —  how  now, 
What  say  you,  Aldovrand  —  a  woman  ?  why  ?  " 

"  Under  the  coif  a  gold  wreath  on  the  brow, 
Yea,  see  the  hair  not  gone  to  powder,  lie, 

"  Golden,  no  doubt,  once  —  yea,  and  very  small  — 
This  for  a  knight ;  but  for  a  dame,  my  lord, 

These  loose-hung  bones  seem  shapely  still,  and  tall,  — 
Didst  ever  see  a  woman's  bones,  my  lord?" 

Often,  God  help  me !  I  remember  when 

I  was  a  simple  boy,  fifteen  years  old, 
The  Jacquerie  froze  up  the  blood  of  men 

With  their  fell  deeds,  not  fit  now  to  be  told : 

God  help  again !  we  enter'd  Beauvais  town, 
Slaying  them  fast,  whereto  I  help'd,  mere  boy 

As  I  was  then  ;  we  gentles  cut  them  down, 
These  burners  and  defilers,  with  great  joy. 

Reason  for  that,  too,  in  the  great  church  there 
These  fiends  had  lit  a  fire,  that  soon  went  out, 

The  church  at  Beauvais  being  so  great  and  fair  — 
My  father,  who  was  by  me,  gave  a  shout 

Between  a  beast's  howl  and  a  woman's  scream, 

Then,  panting,  chuckled  to  me :  "  John,  look  !  look  ! 

Count  the  dames'  skeletons  ! "     From  some  bad  dream 
Like  a  man  just  awaked,  my  father  shook; 

And  I,  being  faint  with  smelling  the  burnt  bones, 
And  very  hot  with  fighting  down  the  street, 

And  sick  of  such  a  life,  fell  down,  with  groans 
My  head  went  weakly  nodding  to  my  feet.  — 


CONCERNING   GEFFRAY  TESTS  NOIRE.     63 

—  An  arrow  had  gone  through  her  tender  throat, 
And  her  right  wrist  was  broken ;  then  I  saw 

The  reason  why  she  had  on  that  war-coat, 
Their  story  came  out  clear  without  a  flaw ; 

For  when  he  knew  that  they  were  being  waylaid, 

He  threw  it  over  her,  yea,  hood  and  all ; 
Whereby  he  was  much  hack'd,  while  they  were  stay'd 

By  those  their  murderers ;  many  an  one  did  fall 

Beneath  his  arm,  no  doubt,  so  that  he  clear'd 
Their  circle,  bore  his  death- wound  out  of  it ; 

But  as  they  rode,  some  archer  least  afear'd 
Drew  a  strong  bow,  and  thereby  she  was  hit. 

Still  as  he  rode  he  knew  not  she  was  dead, 

Thought  her  but  fainted  from  her  broken  wrist, 

He  bound  with  his  great  leathern  belt —  she  bled? 
Who  knows !  he  bled  too,  neither  was  there  miss'd 

The  beating  of  her  heart,  his  heart  beat  well 
For  both  of  them,  till  here,  within  this  wood, 

He  died  scarce  sorry ;  easy  this  to  tell ; 
After  these  years  the  flowers  forget  their  blood.  — 

How  could  it  be  ?  never  before  that  day, 

However  much  a  soldier  I  might  be, 
Could  I  look  on  a  skeleton  and  say 

I  care  not  for  it,  shudder  not  —  now  see, 

Over  those  bones  I  sat  and  pored  for  hours, 

And  thought,  and  dream'd,  and  still  I  scarce  could  see 

The  small  white  bones  that  lay  upon  the  flowers, 
But  evermore  I  saw  the  lady ;  she 

With  her  dear  gentle  walking  leading  in, 
By  a  chain  of  silver  twined  about  her  wrists, 

Her  loving  knight,  mounted  and  arm'd  to  win 
Great  honour  for  her,  fighting  in  the  lists. 

0  most  pale  face,  that  brings  such  joy  and  sorrow 
Into  men's  hearts  — yea,  too,  so  piercing  sharp 

That  joy  is,  that  it  marcheth  nigh  to  sorrow 
For  ever  —  like  an  overwinded  harp. 


64  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

Your  face  must  hurt  me  always :  pray  you  now, 
Doth  it  not  hurt  you  too  ?  seemeth  some  pain 

To  hold  you  always,  pain  to  hold  your  brow 
So  smooth,  un wrinkled  ever ;  yea  again, 

Your  long  eyes  where  the  lids  seem  like  to  drop, 
Would  you  not,  lady,  were  they  shut  fast,  feel 

Far  merrier !  there  so  high  they  will  not  stop, 
They  are  most  sly  to  glide  forth  and  to  steal 

Into  my  heart  ;  I  kiss  their  soft  lids  there. 
And  in  green  gardens  scarce  can  stop  my  lips 

From  wandering  on  your  face,  but  that  your  hair 
Falls  down  and  tangles  me,  back  my  face  slips. 

Or  say  your  mouth  —  I  saw  you  drink  red  wine 

Once  at  a  feast ;  how  slowly  it  sank  in, 
As  though  you  fear'd  that  some  wild  fate  might  twine 

Within  that  cup,  and  slay  you  for  a  sin. 

And  when  you  talk  your  lips  do  arch  and  move 
In  such  wise  that  a  language  new  I  know 

Besides  their  sound ;  they  quiver,  too,  with  love 
When  you  are  standing  silent ;  know  this,  too, 

I  saw  you  kissing  once,  like  a  curved  sword 
That  bites  with  all  its  edge,  did  your  lips  lie, 

Curled  gently,  slowly,  long  time  could  afford 
For  caught-up  breathings ;  like  a  dying  sigh 

They  gather'd  up  their  lines  and  went  away, 
And  still  kept  twitching  with  a  sort  of  smile, 

As  likely  to  be  weeping  presently,  — 

Your  hands  too  —  how  I  watch'd  them  all  the  while ! 

"  Cry  out  St.  Peter  now,"  quoth  Aldovrand ; 

I  cried  "  St.  Peter,"  broke  out  from  the  wood 
With  all  my  spears ;  we  met  them  hand  to  hand, 

And  shortly  slew  them ;  natheless,  by  the  rood, 

We  caught  not  Blackhead  then,  or  any  day  ; 

Months  after  that  he  died  at  last  in  bed, 
From  a  wound  pick'd  up  at  a  barrier-fray ; 

That  same  year's  end  a  steel  bolt  in  the  head, 


OLD  LOVE.  65 

And  much  bad  living  kill'd  Teste  Noire  at  last ; 

John  Froissart  knoweth  he  is  dead  by  now, 
No  doubt,  but  knoweth  not  this  tale  just  past ; 

Perchance  then  you  can  tell  him  what  I  show. 

In  my  new  castle,  down  beside  the  Eure, 
There  is  a  little  chapel  of  squared  stone, 

Painted  inside  and  out ;  in  green  nook  pure 
There  did  I  lay  them,  every  wearied  bone ; 

And  over  it  they  lay,  with  stone-white  hands 

Clasped  fast  together,  hair  made  bright  with  gold ; 

This  Jaques  Picard,  known  through  many  lands, 
Wrought  cunningly ;  he  's  dead  now  —  I  am  old. 


OLD  LOVE. 

"  You  must  be  very  old,  Sir  Giles," 
I  said ;  he  said :  "  Yea,  very  old  :  " 

Whereat  the  mournfullest  of  smiles 
Creased  his  dry  skin  with  many  a  fold. 

"  They  hammer'd  out  my  basnet  point 

Into  a  round  salade,"  he  said, 
"  The  basnet  being  quite  out  of  joint, 

Natheless  the  salade  rasps  my  head." 

He  gazed  at  the  great  fire  a  while : 
"  And  you  are  getting  old,  Sir  John ; " 

(He  said  this  with  that  cunning  smile 
That  was  most  sad ;)  "  we  both  wear  on, 

"  Knights  come  to  court  and  look  at  me, 
With  eyebrows  up,  except  my  lord, 

And  my  dear  lady,  none  I  see 

That  know  the  ways  of  my  old  sword." 

(My  lady !  at  that  word  no  pang 

Stopp'd  all  my  blood.)     "  But  tell  me,  John, 
Is  it  quite  true  that  pagans  hang 

So  thick  about  the  east,  that  on 


66  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

"The  eastern  sea  no  Venice  flag 

Can  fly  unpaid  for  ?  "     "  True,"  I  said, 

"  And  in  such  way  the  miscreants  drag 
Christ's  cross  upon  the  ground,  I  dread 

«  That  Constantino  must  fall  this  year." 

Within  my  heart ;  "  These  things  are  small ; 

This  is  not  small,  that  things  outwear 
I  thought  were  made  for  ever,  yea,  all, 

"  All  things  go  soon  or  late ;  "  I  said  — 
I  saw  the  duke  in  court  next  day ; 

Just  as  before,  his  grand  great  head 
Above  his  gold  robes  dreaming  lay, 

Only  his  face  was  paler ;  there 

I  saw  his  duchess  sit  by  him ; 
And  she  —  she  was  changed  more ;  her  hair 

Before  my  eyes  that  used  to  swim, 

And  make  me  dizzy  with  great  bliss 
Once,  when  I  used  to  watch  her  sit  — 

Her  hair  is  bright  still,  yet  it  is 

As  though  some  dust  were  thrown  on  it. 

Her  eyes  are  shallower,  as  though 

Some  grey  glass  were  behind  ;  her  brow 

And  cheeks  the  straining  bones  show  through 
Are  not  so  good  for  kissing  now. 

Her  lips  are  drier  now  she  is 

A  great  duke's  wife  these  many  years, 

They  will  not  shudder  with  a  kiss 
As  once  they  did,  being  moist  with  tears. 

Also  her  hands  have  lost  that  -way 
Of  clinging  that  they  used  to  have ; 

They  look'd  quite  easy,  as  they  lay 
Upon  the  silken  cushions  brave 

With  broidery  of  the  apples  green 
My  Lord  Duke  bears  upon  his  shield. 


SHAMEFUL  DEATH.  67 

Her  face,  alas !  that  I  have  seen 
Look  fresher  than  an  April  field, 

This  is  all  gone  now ;  gone  also 

Her  tender  walking  j  when  she  walks 

She  is  most  queenly  I  well  know, 
And  she  is  fair  still :  —  as  the  stalks 

Of  faded  summer-lilies  are, 

So  is  she  grown  now  unto  me 
This  spring-time,  when  the  flowers  star 

The  meadows,  birds  sing  wonderfully. 

I  warrant  once  she  used  to  cling 

About  his  neck,  and  kiss'd  him  so, 
And  then  his  coming  step  would  ring 

Joy-bells  for  her,  —  some  time  ago. 

Ah  !  sometimes  like  an  idle  dream 

That  hinders  true  life  overmuch, 
Sometimes  like  a  lost  heaven,  these  seem.  — 

This  love  is  not  so  hard  to  smutch. 


SHAMEFUL  DEATH. 

THERE  were  four  of  us  about  that  bed  j 
The  mass-priest  knelt  at  the  side, 

I  and  his  mother  stood  at  the  head, 
Over  his  feet  lay  the  bride ; 

We  were  quite  sure  that  he  was  dead, 
Though  his  eyes  were  open  wide. 

He  did  not  die  in  the  night, 

He  did  not  die  in  the  day, 
But  in  the  morning  twilight 

His  spirit  pass'd  away, 
When  neither  sun  nor  moon  was  bright, 

And  the  trees  were  merely  grey. 


68  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

He  was  not  slain  with  the  sword, 
Knight's  axe,  or  the  knightly  spear, 

Yet  spoke  he  never  a  word 
After  he  came  in  here  j 

I  cut  away  the  cord 

From  the  neck  of  my  brother  dear. 

He  did  not  strike  one  blow, 

For  the  recreants  came  behind, 
In  a  place  where  the  hornbeams  grow, 

A  path  right  hard  to  find, 
For  the  hornbeam  boughs  swing  so, 

That  the  twilight  makes  it  blind. 

They  lighted  a  great  torch  then, 
When  his  arms  were  pinion'd  fast, 

Sir  John  the  knight  of  the  Fen, 
Sir  Guy  of  the  Dolorous  Blast, 

With  knights  threescore  and  ten, 
Hung  brave  Lord  Hugh  at  last. 

I  am  threescore  and  ten, 

And  my  hair  is  all  turn'd  grey, 
But  I  met  Sir  John  of  the  Fen 

Long  ago  on  a  summer  day, 
And  am  glad  to  think  of  the  moment  when 

I  took  his  life  away. 

I  am  threescore  and  ten, 

And  my  strength  is  mostly  pass'd, 

But  long  ago  I  and  my  men, 
When  the  sky  was  overcast, 

And  the  smoke  roll'd  over  the  reeds  of  the  fen, 
Slew  Guy  of  the  Dolorous  Blast. 

And  now,  knights  all  of  you, 

I  pray  you  pray  for  Sir  Hugh, 
A  good  knight  and  a  true, 

And  for  Alice,  his  wife,  pray  too. 


THE  EVE  OF  CRECY. 


THE  EVE  OF  CKECY.8 

GOLD  on  her  head,  and  gold  on  her  feet, 
And  gold  where  the  hems  of  her  kirtle  meet, 
And  a  golden  girdle  round  my  sweet ;  — 
Ah  !  qu'elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite. 

Margaret's  maids  are  fair  to  see, 

Freshly  dress'd  and  pleasantly ; 
Margaret's  hair  falls  down  to  her  knee ;  — 
Ah  I  qu'elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite. 

If  I  were  rich  I  would  kiss  her  feet, 
I  would  kiss  the  place  where  the  gold  hems  meet, 
And  the  golden  girdle  round  my  sweet :  — 
Ah  !  qu'elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite. 

Ah  me !  I  have  never  touch'd  her  hand, 
When  the  arriere-ban  goes  through  the  land, 
Six  basnets  under  my  pennon  stand  ;  — 
Ah  !  qu'elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite. 

And  many  an  one  grins  under  his  hood : 
"  Sir  Lambert  de  Bois,  with  all  his  men  good, 
Has  neither  food  nor  firewood ; "  — 
Ah!  qu'elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite. 

If  I  were  rich  I  would  kiss  her  feet, 
And  the  golden  girdle  of  my  sweet, 
And  thereabouts  where  the  gold  hems  meet ; 
Ah  !  qu'elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite. 

Yet  even  now  it  is  good  to  think, 
While  my  few  poor  varlets  grumble  and  drink 
In  my  desolate  hall,  where  the  fires  sink,  — 
Ah  I  qu'elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite. 

Of  Margaret  sitting  glorious  there, 
In  glory  of  gold  and  glory  of  hair, 
And  glory  of  glorious  face  most  fair ;  — 
Ah  !  qu'elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite. 


70  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

Likewise  to-night  I  make  good  cheer, 
Because  this  battle  draweth  near : 
For  what  have  I  to  lose  or  fear  ?  — 
AJi !  qu'elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite. 

For,  look  you,  my  horse  is  good  to  prance 
A  right  fair  measure  in  this  war-dance, 
Before  the  eyes  of  Philip  of  France ;  — 
Ah!  qu'elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite. 

And  sometime  it  may  hap,  perdie, 
While  my  new  towers  stand  up  three  and  three, 
And  my  hall  gets  painted  fair  to  see, — 
Ah  !  qu'elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite  — 

That  folks  may  say :  "  Times  change,  by  the  rood, 
For  Lambert,  banneret  of  the  wood, 
Has  heaps  of  food  and  firewood ;  — 

Ah!  qu'elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite;  — 

"  And  wonderful  eyes,  too,  under  the  hood 
Of  a  damsel  of  right  noble  blood : " 
St.  Ives,  for  Lambert  of  the  Wood !  — 
Ah!  qu'elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite. 


THE  GILLIFLOWEK  OF  GOLD. 

A  GOLDEN  gilliflower  to-day 
I  wore  upon  my  helm  alway, 
And  won  the  prize  of  this  tourney. 
Hah  I  hah  !  la  belle  jaune  giroflee. 

However  well  Sir  Giles  might  sit, 
His  sun  was  weak  to  wither  it, 
Lord  Miles's  blood  was  dew  on  it : 
Hah !  hah  !  la  belle  jaune  giroflee. 

Although  my  spear  in  splinters  flew, 
From  John's  steel-coat,  my  eye  was  true; 
I  wheel'd  about,  and  cried  for  you, 
Hah  I  hah !  la  belle  jaune  giroflee. 


THE  GILLIFLOWER  OF  GOLD.  71 

Yea,  do  not  doubt  my  heart  was  good, 
Though  my  sword  flew  like  rotten  wood, 
To  shout,  although  I  scarcely  stood, 
Hah!  hah!  la  belle  jaune  girqflee. 

My  hand  was  steady  too,  to  take 
My  axe  from  round  my  neck,  and  break 
John's  steel-coat  up  for  my  love's  sake. 
Hah  !  hah  !  la  belle  jaune  girqflee. 

When  I  stood  in  my  tent  again, 
Arming  afresh,  I  felt  a  pain 
Take  hold  of  me,  I  was  so  fain, 

Hah  !  hah  !  la  belle  jaune  girqflee. 

To  hear :  "  Honneur  auxfils  des  preux  1 " 
Eight  in  my  ears  again,  and  shew 
The  gilliflower  blossom'd  new. 

Hah  !  hah  !  la  belle  jaune  giroflee. 

The  Sieur  Guillaume  against  me  came, 
His  tabard  bore  three  points  of  flame 
From  a  red  heart :  with  little  blame,  — 
Hah  !  hah  !  la  belle  jaune  giroflee. 

Our  tough  spears  crackled  up  like  straw ; 
He  was  the  first  to  turn  and  draw 
His  sword,  that  had  nor  speck  nor  flaw,  — 
Hah  I  hah  !  la  belle  jaune  giroflee. 

But  I  felt  weaker  than  a  maid, 
And  my  brain,  dizzied  and  afraid, 
Within  my  helm  a  fierce  tune  play'd,  — 
Hah  I  hah  !  la  belle  jaune  girqflee. 

Until  I  thought  of  your  dear  head, 
Bow'd  to  the  gilliflower  bed, 
The  yellow  flowers  stain'd  with  red ;  — 
Hah  !  hah  !  la  belle  jaune  giroflee. 

Crash !  how  the  swords  met,  "  giroflee  !  " 
The  fierce  tune  in  my  helm  would  play, 
«  La  belle  I  la  belle  !  jaune  girqflee  !  " 
Hah  I  hah!  la  belle  jaune  girqflfa. 


72  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

Once  more  the  great  swords  met  again, 
"La  belle!  la  belle!"  but  who  fell  then? 
Le  Sieur  Guillaume,  who  struck  down  ten ;  — 
Hah  I  hah  I  la  belle  jaune  girqflte. 

And  as  with  mazed  and  unarm'd  face, 
Toward  my  own  crown  and  the  Queen's  place, 
They  led  me  at  a  gentle  pace. 

Hah  /  hah  !  la  belle  jaune  giroflee. 

I  almost  saw  your  quiet  head 
Bow'd  o'er  the  gilliflower  bed, 
The  yellow  flowers  stain'd  with  red.  — 
Hah  I  hah  !  la  belle  jaune  giroflee. 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  GOD. 

"  SWERVE  to  the  left,  son  Koger,"  he  said, 

"  When  you  catch  his  eyes  through  the  helmet-slit, 

Swerve  to  the  left,  then  out  at  his  head, 
And  the  Lord  God  give  you  joy  of  it ! " 

The  blue  owls  on  my  father's  hood 

Were  a  little  dimm'd  as  I  turn'd  away ; 

This  giving  up  of  blood  for  blood 
Will  finish  here  somehow  to-day. 

So  when  I  walk'd  out  from  the  tent, 

Their  howling  almost  blinded  me ; 
Yet  for  all  that  I  was  not  bent 

By  any  shame.     Hard  by,  the  sea 

Made  a  noise  like  the  aspens  where 
We  did  that  wrong,  but  now  the  place 

Is  very  pleasant,  and  the  air 
Blows  cool  on  any  passer's  face. 

And  all  the  wrong  is  gather'd  now 

Into  the  circle  of  these  lists  — 
Yea,  howl  out,  butchers !  tell  me  how 

His  hands  were  cut  off  at  the  wrists ; 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  GOD.  73 

And  how  Lord  Koger  bore  his  face 

A  league  above  his  spear-point,  high 
Above  the  owls,  to  that  strong  place 

Among  the  waters  —  yea,  yea,  cry: 

"What  a  brave  champion  we  have  got! 

Sir  Oliver,  the  flower  of  all 
The  Hainault  knights."    The  day  being  hot, 

He  sat  beneath  a  broad  white  pall, 

White  linen  over  all  his  steel ; 

What  a  good  knight  he  look'd  !  his  sword 
Laid  thwart  his  knees ;  he  liked  to  feel 

Its  steadfast  edge  clear  as  his  word. 

And  he  look'd  solemn :  how  his  love 
Smiled  whitely  on  him,  sick  with  fear  I 

How  all  the  ladies  up  above 

Twisted  their  pretty  hands ;  so  near 

The  fighting  was  —  Ellayne  !  Ellayne ! 

They  cannot  love  like  you  can,  who 
Would  burn  your  hands  off,  if  that  pain 

Could  win  a  kiss  —  am  I  not  true 

To  you  for  ever  ?  therefore  I 

Do  not  fear  death  or  anything ; 
If  I  should  limp  home  wounded,  why, 

While  I  lay  sick  you  would  but  sing, 

And  soothe  me  into  quiet  sleep. 

If  they  spat  on  the  recreant  knight, 
Threw  stones  at  him,  and  cursed  him  deep, 

Why  then  —  what  then ;  your  hand  would  light 

So  gently  on  his  drawn-up  face, 

And  you  would  kiss  him,  and  in  soft 
Cool  scented  clothes  would  lap  him,  pace 

The  quiet  room  and  weep  oft,  —  oft 

Would  turn  and  smile,  and  brush  his  cheek 
With  your  sweet  chin  and  mouth ;  and  in 

The  order'd  garden  you  would  seek 
The  biggest  roses  —  any  sin. 


74  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

And  these  say :  "  No  more  now  my  knight, 
Or  God's  knight  any  longer"  —  you, 

Being  than  they  so  much  more  white, 
So  much  more  pure  and  good  and  true, 

Will  cling  to  me  for  ever  —  there, 
Is  not  that  wrong  turn'd  right  at  last 

Through  all  these  years,  and  I  wash'd  clean  ? 
Say,  yea,  Ellayne ;  the  time  is  past, 

Since  on  that  Christmas-day  last  year 

Up  to  your  feet  the  fire  crept, 
And  the  smoke  through  the  brown  leaves  sere 

Blinded  your  dear  eyes  that  you  wept; 

Was  it  not  I  that  caught  you  then, 
And  kiss'd  you  on  the  saddle-bow  ? 

Did  not  the  blue  owl  mark  the  men 

Whose  spears  stood  like  the  corn  a-row  ? 

This  Oliver  is  a  right  good  knight, 
And  must  needs  beat  me,  as  I  fear, 

Unless  I  catch  him  in  the  fight, 
My  father's  crafty  way  —  John,  here ! 

Bring  up  the  men  from  the  south  gate, 

To  help  me  if  I  fall  or  win, 
For  even  if  I  beat,  their  hate 

Will  grow  to  more  than  this  mere  grin. 


THE  HAYSTACK  IN  THE  FLOODS. 

HAD  she  come  all  the  way  for  this, 
To  part  at  last  without  a  kiss  ? 
Yea,  had  she  borne  the  dirt  and  rain 
That  her  own  eyes  might  see  him  slain 
Beside  the  haystack  in  the  floods  ? 

Along  the  dripping  leafless  woods, 
The  stirrup  touching  either  shoe, 


THE  HAYSTACK  IN  THE  FLOODS.  75 

She  rode  astride  as  troopers  do ; 

With  kirtle  kilted  to  her  knee, 

To  which  the  mud  splash'd  wretchedly ; 

And  the  wet  dripp'd  from  every  tree 

Upon  her  head  and  heavy  hair, 

And  on  her  eyelids  broad  and  fair ; 

The  tears  and  rain  ran  down  her  face. 

By  fits  and  starts  they  rode  apace, 

And  very  often  was  his  place 

Far  off  from  her ;  he  had  to  ride 

Ahead,  to  see  what  might  betide 

When  the  roads  cross'd ;  and  sometimes,  when 

There  rose  a  murmuring  from  his  men, 

Had  to  turn  back  with  promises ; 

Ah  me !  she  had  but  little  ease ; 

And  often  for  pure  doubt  and  dread 

She  sobb'd,  made  giddy  in  the  head 

By  the  swift  riding ;  while,  for  cold, 

Her  slender  fingers  scarce  could  hold 

The  wet  reins ;  yea,  and  scarcely,  too, 

She  felt  the  foot  within  her  shoe 

Against  the  stirrup :  all  for  this, 

To  part  at  last  without  a  kiss 

Beside  the  haystack  in  the  floods. 

For  when  they  near'd  that  old  soak'd  hay, 

They  saw  across  the  only  way 

That  Judas,  Godmar,  and  the  three 

Ked  running  lions  dismally 

Grinn'd  from  his  pennon,  under  which 

In  one  straight  line  along  the  ditch, 

They  counted  thirty  heads. 

So  then, 

While  Kobert  turn'd  round  to  his  men, 
She  saw  at  once  the  wretched  end, 
And,  stooping  down,  tried  hard  to  rend 
Her  coif  the  wrong  way  from  her  head, 
And  hid  her  eyes ;  while  Kobert  said : 
"Nay,  love,  't  is  scarcely  two  to  one, 
At  Poictiers  where  we  made  them  run 
So  fast  —  why,  sweet  my  love,  good  cheer, 


76  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

The  Gascon  frontier  is  so  near, 
Nought  after  this." 

But,  "  0,"  she  said, 
"My  God !  my  God !  I  have  to  tread 
The  long  way  back  without  you ;  then 
The  court  at  Paris ;  those  six  men ; 
The  gratings  of  the  Chatelet; 
The  swift  Seine  on  some  rainy  day 
Like  this,  and  people  standing  by, 
And  laughing,  while  my  weak  hands  try 
To  recollect  how  strong  men  swim. 
All  this,  or  else  a  life  with  him, 
For  which  I  should  be  damned  at  last, 
Would  God  that  this  next  hour  were  past ! " 

He  answer'd  not,  but  cried  his  cry, 
"  St.  George  for  Marny ! "  cheerily ; 
And  laid  his  hand  upon  her  rein. 
Alas !  no  man  of  all  his  train 
Gave  back  that  cheery  cry  again; 
And,  while  for  rage  his  thumb  beat  fast 
Upon  his  sword-hilt,  some  one  cast 
About  his  neck  a  kerchief  long, 
And  bound  him. 

Then  they  went  along 
To  Godmar ;  who  said :  "  Now,  Jehane, 
Your  lover's  life  is  on  the  wane 
So  fast,  that,  if  this  very  hour 
You  yield  not  as  my  paramour, 
He  will  not  see  the  rain  leave  off  — 
Nay,  keep  your  tongue  from  gibe  and  scoff, 
Sir  Robert,  or  I  slay  you  now." 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  her  brow, 
Then  gazed  upon  the  palm,  as  though 
She  thought  her  forehead  bled,  and  "  No," 
She  said,  and  turn'd  her  head  away, 
As  there  were  nothing  else  to  say, 
And  everything  were  settled :  red 
Grew  Godmar's  face  from  chin  to  head : 
"  Jehane,  on  yonder  hill  there  stands 


THE  HAYSTACK  IN  THE  FLOODS.  77 

My  castle,  guarding  well  my  lands : 
What  hinders  me  from  taking  you, 
And  doing  that  I  list  to  do 
To  your  fair  wilful  body,  while 
Your  knight  lies  dead  ?  " 

A  wicked  smile 

Wrinkled  her  face,  her  lips  grew  thin, 
A  long  way  out  she  thrust  her  chin : 
"  You  know  that  I  should  strangle  you 
While  you  were  sleeping ;  or  bite  through 
Your  throat,  by  God's  help  —  ah! "  she  said, 
"  Lord  Jesus,  pity  your  poor  maid ! 
For  in  such  wise  they  hem  me  in, 
I  cannot  choose  but  sin  and  sin, 
Whatever  happens :  yet  I  think 
They  could  not  make  me  eat  or  drink, 
And  so  should  I  just  reach  my  rest." 
"  Nay,  if  you  do  not  iny  behest, 
O  Jehane !  though  I  love  you  well," 
Said  Godmar,  "  would  I  fail  to  tell 
All  that  I  know."     «  Foul  lies,"  she  said. 
"  Eh  !  lies,  my  Jehane  ?  by  God's  head, 
At  Paris  folks  would  deem  them  true  ! 
Do  you  know,  Jehane,  they  cry  for  you, 
*  Jehane  the  brown !  Jehane  the  brown ! 
Give  us  Jehane  to  burn  or  drown  ! '  — 
Eh  —  gag  me,  Kobert !  —  sweet  my  friend, 
This  were  indeed  a  piteous  end 
For  those  long  ringers,  and  long  feet, 
And  long  neck,  and  smooth  shoulders  sweet ; 
An  end  that  few  men  would  forget 
That  saw  it  —  So,  an  hour  yet : 
Consider,  Jehane,  which  to  take 
Of  life  or  death ! " 

So,  scarce  awake, 

Dismounting,  did  she  leave  that  place, 
And  totter  some  yards  :  with  her  face 
Turn'd  upward  to  the  sky  she  lay, 
Her  head  on  a  wet  heap  of  hay, 
And  fell  asleep :  and  while  she  slept, 
And  did  not  dream,  the  minutes  crept 


78  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

Bound  to  the  twelve  again ;  but  she, 
Being  waked  at  last,  sigh'd  quietly, 
And  strangely  childlike  came,  and  said : 
"I  will  not."     Straightway  Godmar's  head, 
As  though  it  hung  on  strong  wires  turn'd 
Most  sharply  round,  and  his  face  burn'd. 

For  Robert  —  both  his  eyes  were  dry, 
He  could  not  weep,  but  gloomily 
He  seem'd  to  watch  the  rain ;  yea,  too, 
His  lips  were  firm ;  he  tried  once  more 
To  touch  her  lips  ;  she  reach'd  out,  sore 
And  vain  desire  so  tortured  them, 
The  poor  grey  lips,  and  now  the  hem 
Of  his  sleeve  brush'd  them. 

With  a  start 

Up  Godmar  rose,  thrust  them  apart ; 
From  Robert's  throat  he  loosed  the  bands 
Of  silk  and  mail ;  with  empty  hands 
Held  out,  she  stood  and  gazed,  and  saw, 
The  long  bright  blade  without  a  flaw 
Glide  out  from  Godmar's  sheath,  his  hand 
In  Robert's  hair  ;  she  saw  him  bend 
Back  Robert's  head ;  she  saw  him  send 
The  thin  steel  down ;  the  blow  told  well, 
Right  backward  the  knight  Robert  fell, 
And  moan'd  as  dogs  do,  being  half  dead, 
Unwitting,  as  I  deem :  so  then 
Godmar  turn'd  grinning  to  his  men, 
Who  ran,  some  five  or  six,  and  beat 
His  head  to  pieces  at  their  feet. 

Then  Godmar  turn'd  again  and  said : 
"  So  Jehane,  the  first  fitte  is  read! 
Take  note,  my  lady,  that  your  way 
Lies  backward  to  the  Chatelet  I " 
She  shook  her  head  and  gazed  awhile 
At  her  cold  hands  with  a  rueful  smile, 
As  though  this  thing  had  made  her  mad. 

This  was  the  parting  that  they  had 
Beside  the  haystack  in  the  floods. 


RIDING   TOGETHER.  79 


SIDING  TOGETHER.9 

FOR  many,  many  days  together 

The  wind  blew  steady  from  the  East ; 

For  many  days  hot  grew  the  weather, 
About  the  time  of  our  Lady's  Feast. 

For  many  days  we  rode  together, 
Yet  met  we  neither  friend  nor  foe ; 

Hotter  and  clearer  grew  the  weather, 
Steadily  did  the  East  wind  blow. 

We  saw  the  trees  in  the  hot,  bright  weather, 

Clear-cut,  with  shadows  very  black 
As  freely  we  rode  on  together 

With  helms  unlaced  and  bridles  slack. 

And  often  as  we  rode  together, 

We,  looking  down  the  green-bank'd  stream, 
Saw  flowers  in  the  sunny  weather, 

And  saw  the  bubble-making  bream. 

And  in  the  night  lay  down  together, 
And  hung  above  our  heads  the  rood, 

Or  watch'd  night-long  in  the  dewy  weather, 
The  while  the  moon  did  watch  the  wood. 

Our  spears  stood  bright  and  thick  together, 
Straight  out  the  banners  stream'd  behind, 

As  we  gallop'd  on  in  the  sunny  weather, 
With  faces  turn'd  towards  the  wind. 

Down  sank  our  threescore  spears  together, 

As  thick  we  saw  the  pagans  ride ; 
His  eager  face  in  the  clear  fresh  weather, 

Shone  out  that  last  time  by  my  side. 

Up  the  sweep  of  the  bridge  we  dash'd  together, 
It  rock'd  to  the  crash  of  the  meeting  spears, 

Down  rain'd  the  buds  of  the  dear  spring  weather, 
The  elm-tree  flowers  fell  like  tears. 


80  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

There,  as  we  roll'd  and  writhed  together, 
I  threw  my  arms  above  my  head, 

For  close  by  my  side,  in  the  lovely  weather, 
I  saw  him  reel  and  fall  back  dead. 

I  and  the  slayer  met  together, 

He  waited  the  death-stroke  there  in  his  place, 
With  thoughts  of  death,  in  the  lovely  weather, 

Gapingly  mazed  at  my  madden'd  face. 

Madly  I  fought  as  we  fought  together ; 

In  vain :  the  little  Christian  band 
The  pagans  drown'd,  as  in  stormy  weather, 

The  river  drowns  low-lying  land. 

They  bound  my  blood-stain'd  hands  together, 
They  bound  his  corpse  to  nod  by  my  side : 

Then  on  we  rode,  in  the  bright  March  weather, 
With  clash  of  cymbals  did  we  ride. 

We  ride  no  more,  no  more  together ; 

My  prison-bars  are  thick  and  strong, 
I  take  no  heed  of  any  weather, 

The  sweet  Saints  grant  I  live  not  long. 


WINTER  WEATHER. 

WE  rode  together 
In  the  winter  weather 

To  the  broad  mead  under  the  hill ; 
Though  the  skies  did  shiver 
With  the  cold,  the  river 
Ran,  and  was  never  still. 

No  cloud  did  darken 

The  night ;  we  did  hearken 

The  hound's  bark  far  away. 
It  was  solemn  midnight 
In  that  dread,  dread  night, 

In  the  years  that  have  pass'd  for  aye. 


WINTER    WEATHER.  81 

Two  rode  beside  me, 
My  banner  did  hide  me, 

As  it  droop'd  adown  from  my  lance; 
With  its  deep  blue  trapping, 
The  mail  over-lapping, 

My  gallant  horse  did  prance. 

So  ever  together 

In  the  sparkling  weather 

Moved  my  banner  and  lance ; 
And  its  laurel  trapping, 
The  steel  over-lapping, 

The  stars  saw  quiver  and  dance. 

We  met  together 

In  the  winter  weather 

By  the  town- walls  under  the  hill ; 
His  mail-rings  came  clinking, 
They  broke  on  my  thinking, 

For  the  night  was  hush'd  and  still. 

Two  rode  beside  him, 
His  banner  did  hide  him, 

As  it  droop'd  down  strait  from  his  lance ; 
With  its  blood-red  trapping, 
The  mail  overlapping, 

His  mighty  horse  did  prance. 

And  ever  together 

In  the  solemn  weather 

Moved  his  banner  and  lance ; 
And  the  holly  trapping, 
The  steel  overlapping, 

Did  shimmer  and  shiver,  and  dance. 

Back  reined  the  squires 
Till  they  saw  the  spires 

Over  the  city  wall ; 
Ten  fathoms  between  us, 
No  dames  could  have  seen  us 

Tilt,  from  the  city  wall. 


82  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

There  we  sat  upright 
Till  the  full  midnight 

Should  be  told  from  the  city  chimes : 
Sharp  from  the  towers 
Leapt  forth  the  showers 

Of  the  many  clanging  rhymes. 

>T  was  the  midnight  hour, 
Deep  from  the  tower 

Boom'd  the  following  bell ; 
Down  go  our  lances, 
Shout  for  the  lances ! 

The  last  toll  was  his  knell. 

There  he  lay,  dying; 
He  had,  for  his  lying, 

A  spear  in  his  traitorous  mouth ; 
A  false  tale  made  he 
Of  my  true,  true  lady ; 

But  the  spear  went  through  his  mouth. 

In  the  winter  weather 
We  rode  back  together 

From  the  broad  mead  under  the  hill ; 
And  the  cock  sung  his  warning 
As  it  grew  toward  morning, 

But  the  far-off  hound  was  still. 

Black  grew  his  tower 
As  we  rode  down  lower, 

Black  from  the  barren  hill ; 
And  our  horses  strode 
Up  the  winding  road 

To  the  gateway  dim  and  stilL 

At  the  gate  of  his  tower, 
In  the  quiet  hour, 

We  laid  his  body  there ; 
But  his  helmet  broken, 
We  took  as  a  token ; 

Shout  for  my  lady  fair  I 


THE  BLUE   CLOSET.  83 

We  rode  back  together 
In  the  winter  weather 

From  the  broad  mead  under  the  hill ; 
No  cloud  did  darken 
The  night ;  we  did  hearken 

How  the  hound  bay'd  from  the  hill. 


THE  BLUE  CLOSET.10 

THE  DAMOZELS. 

LADY  Alice,  lady  Louise, 

Between  the  wash  of  the  tumbling  seas 
We  are  ready  to  sing,  if  so  ye  please  ; 
So  lay  your  long  hands  on  the  keys  ; 

Sing,  "  Laudate  pueri." 

And  ever  the  great  bell  overhead 
Boom'd  in  the  wind  a  knell  for  the  dead, 
Tliough  no  one  toWd  it,  a  knell  for  the  dead. 

LADY  LOUISE. 

Sister,  let  the  measure  swell 
Not  too  loud ;  for  you  sing  not  well 
If  you  drown  the  faint  boom  of  the  bell ; 
He  is  weary,  so  am  I. 

And  ever  the  chevron  overhead 
Flapp'd  on  the  banner  of  the  dead  ; 
(  Was  he  asleep,  or  was  he  dead  T) 

LADY  ALICE. 

Alice  the  Queen,  and  Louise  the  Queen, 

Two  damozels  wearing  purple  and  green, 

Four  lone  ladies  dwelling  here 

From  day  to  day  and  year  to  year ; 

And  there  is  none  to  let  us  go ; 

To  break  the  locks  of  the  doors  below, 

Or  shovel  away  the  heaped-up  snow ; 


84  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

And  when  we  die  no  man  will  know 

That  we  are  dead  ;  but  they  give  us  leave, 

Once  every  year  on  Christmas-eve, 

To  sing  in  the  Closet  Blue  one  song ; 

And  we  should  be  so  long,  so  long, 

If  we  dared,  in  singing ;  for  dream  on  dream, 

They  float  on  in  a  happy  stream ; 

Float  from  the  gold  strings,  float  from  the  keys, 

Float  from  the  open'd  lips  of  Louise  ; 

But,  alas !  the  sea-salt  oozes  through 

The  chinks  of  the  tiles  of  the  Closet  Blue ; 

And  ever  the  great  bell  overhead 
Booms  in  the  wind  a  knell  for  the  dead, 
The  wind  plays  on  it  a  knell  for  the  dead. 


[They  sing  all  together."] 

How  long  ago  was  it,  how  long  ago, 

He  came  to  this  tower  with  hands  full  of  snow  ? 

"  Kneel  down,  0  love  Louise,  kneel  down,"  he  said, 
And  sprinkled  the  dusty  snow  over  my  head. 

He  watch'd  the  snow  melting,  it  ran  through  my  hair. 
Kan  over  my  shoulders,  white  shoulders  and  bare. 

"  I  cannot  weep  for  thee,  poor  love  Louise, 

For  my  tears  are  all  hidden  deep  under  the  seas ; 

"  In  a  gold  and  blue  casket  she  keeps  all  my  tears, 
But  my  eyes  are  no  longer  blue,  as  in  old  years ; 

"  Yea,  they  grow  grey  with  time,  grow  small  and  dry, 
I  am  so  feeble  now,  would  I  might  die." 

And  in  truth  the  great  bell  overhead 
Left  off  his  pealing  for  the  dead, 
Perchance,  because  the  wind  was  dead. 

Will  he  come  back  again,  or  is  he  dead  ? 
O !  is  he  sleeping,  my  scarf  round  his  head  ? 


PRAISE   OF  MY  LADY.  85 

Or  did  they  strangle  him  as  he  lay  there, 
With  the  long  scarlet  scarf  I  used  to  wear  ? 

Only  I  pray  thee,  Lord,  let  him  come  here  ! 
Both  his  soul  and  his  body  to  me  are  most  dear. 

Dear  Lord,  that  loves  me,  I  wait  to  receive 
Either  body  or  spirit  this  wild  Christmas-eve. 

TJirough  the  floor  shot  up  a  lily  red, 

With  a  patch  of  earth  from  the  land  of  the  dead, 

For  he  was  stronOfin  the  land  of  the  dead. 

What  matter  that  his  cheeks  were  pale, 

His  kind  kiss'd  lips  all  grey  ? 
"  0,  love  Louise,  have  you  waited  long  ?  n 

"  0,  my  lord  Arthur,  yea." 

What  if  his  hair  that  brush'd  her  cheek 

Was  stiff  with  frozen  rime  ? 
His  eyes  were  grown  quite  blue  again, 

As  in  the  happy  time. 

"  O,  love  Louise,  this  is  the  key 

Of  the  happy  golden  land  ! 
O,  sisters,  cross  the  bridge  with  me, 

My  eyes  are  full  of  sand. 
What  matter  that  I  cannot  see, 

If  ye  take  me  by  the  hand  ?  " 

And  ever  the  great  bell  overhead, 

And  the  tumbling  seas  mourn'd  for  the  dead  ; 

For  their  song  ceased,  and  they  were  dead. 


PEAISE  OF  MY  LADY.10 

MY  lady  seems  of  ivory, 

Forehead,  straight  nose,  and  cheeks  that  be 

Hollow'd  a  little  mournfully. 

Beata  mea  Domina  ! 


86  EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

Her  forehead,  overshadow'd  much. 
By  bows  of  hair,  has  a  wave  such 
As  God  was  good  to  make  for  me. 

Beata  mea  Domino,! 

Not  greatly  long  my  lady's  hair, 
Nor  yet  with  yellow  colour  fair, 
But  thick  and  crisped  wonderfully : 
Beata  mea  Domina  ! 

Heavy  to  make  the  pale  face  sad, 
And  dark,  but  dead  as  though  it  had 
Been  forged  by  God  most  wonderfully 

— Beata  mea  Domina! — 

Of  some  strange  metal,  thread  by  thread, 
To  stand  out  from  my  lady's  head, 
Not  moving  much  to  tangle  me. 

Beata  mea  Domina! 

Beneath  her  brows  the  lids  fall  slow, 
The  lashes  a  clear  shadow  throw 
Where  I  would  wish  my  lips  to  be. 
Beata  mea  Domina  ! 

Her  great  eyes,  standing  far  apart, 
Draw  up  some  memory  from  her  heart, 
And  gaze  out  very  mournfully  ; 

—  Beata  mea  Domina  /  — 

So  beautiful  and  kind  they  are, 
But  most  times  looking  out  afar, 
Waiting  for  something,  not  for  me. 
Beata  mea  Domina  ! 

I  wonder  if  the  lashes  long 

Are  those  that  do  her  bright  eyes  wrong, 

For  always  half  tears  seem  to  be 

— Beata  mea  Domina  ! — 

Lurking  below  the  underlid, 
Darkening  the  place  where  they  lie  hid  — 
If  they  should  rise  and  flow  for  me  ! 
Beata  mea  Domina! 


PRAISE   OF  MY  LADY.  87 

Her  full  lips  being  made  to  kiss, 
Curl'd  up  and  pensive  each  one  is ; 
This  makes  me  faint  to  stand  and  see. 
Beata  mea  Domina  I 

Her  lips  are  not  contented  now, 
Because  the  hours  pass  so  slow 
Towards  a  sweet  time  :  (pray  for  me), 

—  Beata  mea  Domina  /— 

Nay,  hold  thy  peace !  for  who  can  tell ; 
But  this  at  least  I  know  full  well, 
Her  lips  are  parted  longingly, 

—  Beata  mea  Domina!  — 

So  passionate  and  swift  to  move, 
To  pluck  at  any  flying  love, 
That  I  grow  faint  to  stand  and  see. 
Beata  mea  Domina  I 

Yea !  there  beneath  them  is  her  chin, 
So  fine  and  round,  it  were  a  sin 
To  feel  no  weaker  when  I  see 

—  Beata  mea  Domina  I  — 

God's  dealings ;  for  with  so  much  care 
And  troublous,  faint  lines  wrought  in  there, 
He  finishes  her  face  for  me. 

Beata  mea  Domina  1 

Of  her  long  neck  what  shall  I  say  ? 
What  things  about  her  body's  sway, 
Like  a  knight's  pennon  or  slim  tree 

—  Beata  mea  Domina  !  — 

Set  gently  waving  in  the  wind ; 
Or  her  long  hands  that  I  may  find 
On  some  day  sweet  to  move  o'er  me  f 
Beata  mea  Domina  ! 

God  pity  me  though,  if  I  miss'd 
The  telling,  how  along  her  wrist 
The  veins  creep,  dying  languidly 

—  Beata  mea  Domina  !  — 


EARLY  ROMANTIC  POEMS. 

Inside  her  tender  palm  and  thin. 
Now  give  me  pardon,  dear,  wherein 
My  voice  is  weak  and  vexes  thee. 

Beata  mea  Domino,  ! 

All  men  that  see  her  any  time, 

I  charge  you  straightly  in  this  rhyme, 

What,  and  wherever  you  may  be, 

—  Beata  meaDomina  !• 

To  kneel  before  her;  as  for  me, 
I  choke  and  grow  quite  faint  to  see 
My  lady  moving  graciously. 

Beata  mea  Domino,  I 


SUMMER  DAWN.10 

PRAY  but  one  prayer  for  me  'twixt  thy  closed  lips, 

Think  but  one  thought  of  me  up  in  the  stars. 

The  summer  night  waneth,  the  morning  light  slips, 

Faint  and  grey  'twixt  the  leaves  of  the  aspen,  betwixt 

the  cloud-bars, 
That  are  patiently  waiting  there  for  the  dawn : 

Patient  and  colourless,  though  Heaven's  gold 
Waits  to  float  through  them  along  with  the  sun. 
Far  out  in  the  meadows,  above  the  young  corn, 

The  heavy  elms  wait,  and  restless  and  cold 
The  uneasy  wind  rises ;  the  roses  are  dun ; 
Through  the  long  twilight  they  pray  for  the  dawn, 
Eound  the  lone  house  in  the  midst  of  the  corn. 

Speak  but  one  word  to  me  over  the  corn, 

Over  the  tender,  bow'd  locks  of  the  corn. 


THE  LIFE  AND  DEATH  OP  JASON.11 
(SELECTION  OF  SONGS.) 


THE  LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF  JASON. 


A  GARDEN  BY  THE  SEA.13 

I  KNOW  a  little  garden-close, 
Set  thick  with  lily  and  red  rose, 
Where  I  would  wander  if  I  might 
From  dewy  morn  to  dewy  night, 
And  have  one  with  me  wandering. 

And  though  within  it  no  birds  sing, 
And  though  no  pillared  house  is  there, 
And  though  the  apple-boughs  are  bare 
Of  fruit  and  blossom,  would  to  God 
Her  feet  upon  the  green  grass  trod, 
And  I  beheld  them  as  before. 

There  comes  a  murmur  from  the  shore, 
And  in  the  close  two  fair  streams  are, 
Drawn  from  the  purple  hills  afar, 
Drawn  down  unto  the  restless  sea : 
Dark  hills  whose  heath-bloom  feeds  no  bee, 
Dark  shore  no  ship  has  ever  seen, 
Tormented  by  the  billows  green 
Whose  murmur  comes  unceasingly 
Unto  the  place  for  which  I  cry. 

For  which  I  cry  both  day  and  night, 
For  which  I  let  slip  all  delight, 
Whereby  I  grow  both  deaf  and  blind, 
Careless  to  win,  unskilled  to  find, 
And  quick  to  lose  what  all  men  seek. 

Yet  tottering  as  I  am  and  weak, 
Still  have  I  left  a  little  breath 
To  seek  within  the  jaws  of  death 
91 


92          THE  LIFE  AND  DEATH   OF  JASON. 

An  entrance  to  that  happy  place, 

To  seek  the  unforgotten  face, 

Once  seen,  once  kissed,  once  reft  from  me 

Anigh  the  murmuring  of  the  sea. 


«0  SUBELY,  NOW  THE  FISHERMAN."14 

0  SURELY,  now  the  fisherman 
Draws  homeward  through  the  water  wan 
Across  the  bay  we  know  so  well, 
And  in  the  sheltered  chalky  dell 
The  shepherd  stirs ;  and  now  afield 
They  drive  the  team  with  white  wand  peeled, 
Muttering  across  the  barley-bread 
At  daily  toil  and  dreary-head. 

And  midst  them  all,  perchance,  my  love 
Is  waking,  and  doth  gently  move 
And  stretch  her  soft  arms  out  to  me, 
Forgetting  thousand  leagues  of  sea ; 
And  now  her  body  I  behold, 
Unhidden  but  by  hair  of  gold, 
And  now  the  silver  water  kiss, 
The  crown  of  all  delight  and  bliss. 
And  now  I  see  her  bind  her  hair 
And  do  upon  her  raiment  fair, 
And  now  before  the  altar  stand, 
With  incense  in  her  outstretched  hand. 
To  supplicate  the  Gods  for  me ; 
Ah,  one  day  landing  from  the  sea, 
Amid  the  maidens  shall  I  hear 
Her  voice  in  praise,  and  see  her  near, 
Holding  the  gold-wrapt  laurel  crown, 
Midst  of  the  shouting,  wondering  town ! 


"ALAS!    FOR  SATURN'S  DAYS   OF  GOLD."" 

ALAS  !  for  Saturn's  days  of  gold, 
Before  the  mountain  men  were  bold 
To  dig  up  iron  from  the  earth 
Wherewith  to  slaughter  health  and  mirth, 


"ALAS!  FOR  SATURN'S  DAYS   OF  GOLD."    93 

And  bury  hope  far  underground. 
When  all  men  needed  did  abound 
In  every  land ;  nor  must  they  toil, 
Nor  wear  their  lives  in  strife  to  foil 
Each  other's  hands,  for  all  was  good, 
And  no  man  knew  the  sight  of  blood. 

With  all  the  world  man  had  no  strife, 
No  element  against  his  life 
Was  sworn  and  bitter ;  on  the  sea, 
Dry-shod,  could  all  walk  easily  ; 
No  fire  there  was  but  what  made  day, 
Or  hidden  in  the  mountains  grey  ; 
No  pestilence,  no  lightning  flash, 
No  over-mastering  wind,  to  dash 
The  roof  upon  some  trembling  head. 

Then  the  year  changed,  but  ne'er  was  dead, 
Nor  was  the  autumn-tide  more  sad 
Than  very  spring ;  and  all  unclad 
Folk  went  upon  the  harmless  snow, 
For  not  yet  did  midwinter  know 
The  biting  frost  and  icy  wind, 
The  very  east  was  soft  and  kind. 

And  on  the  crown  of  July  days, 
All  heedless  of  the  mid-day  blaze, 
Unshaded  by  the  rosy  bowers, 
Unscorched  beside  the  tulip  flowers, 
The  snow-white  naked  girl  might  stand ; 
Or  fearless  thrust  her  tender  hand 
Amidst  the  thornless  rose-bushes. 

Then,  'mid  the  twilight  of  the  trees 
None  feared  the  yellow  beast  to  meet ; 
Smiling  to  feel  their  languid  feet 
Licked  by  the  serpent's  forked  tongue. 
For  then'no  clattering  horn  had  rung 
Through  those  green  glades,  or  made  afraid 
The  timid  dwellers  in  the  shade. 
No  lust  of  strength,  no  fear  of  death 
Had  driven  men,  with  shortened  breath, 
The  stag's  wide-open  eyes  to  watch ; 
No  shafts  to  slay,  no  nets  to  catch, 
Were  yet ;  unyoked  the  neat  might  play 
On  untilled  meads  and  mountains  grey ; 
Unshorn  the  silly  sheep  might  rove. 


94  THE  LIFE  AND  DEATH   OF  JASON. 

Nor  knew  that  world-consuming  love, 
Mother  of  hate,  or  envy  cold, 
Or  rage  for  fame,  or  thirst  for  gold, 
Or  longing  for  the  ways  untried, 
Which  ravening  and  unsatisfied, 
Draw  shortened  lives  of  men  to  hell. 

Alas  !  what  profit  now  to  tell 
The  long  unweary  lives  of  men 
Of  past  days  —  threescore  years  and  ten, 
Unbent,  un  wrinkled,  beautiful, 
Regarding  not  death's  flower-crowned  skull, 
But  with  some  damsel  intertwined 
In  such  love  as  leaves  hope  behind. 

Alas,  the  vanished  days  of  bliss ! 
Will  no  God  send  some  dream  of  this, 
That  we  may  know  what  it  has  been  ? 

Oh,  thou,  the  chapleted  with  green, 
Thou  purple-stained,  but  not  with  blood, 
Who  on  the  edge  of  some  cool  wood 
Forgettest  the  grim  Indian  plain, 
And  all  the  strife  and  all  the  pain, 
While  in  thy  sight  the  must  foams  out, 
And  maid  and  man,  with  cry  and  shout, 
Toil  while  thou  laughest,  think  of  us, 
And  drive  away  these  piteous, 
Formless,  and  wailing  thoughts,  that  press 
About  our  hour  of  happiness. 

Lyaeus,  King  !  by  thee  alone 
To  song  may  change  our  tuneless  moan, 
The  murmur  of  the  bitter  sea 
To  ancient  tales  be  changed  by  thee. 
By  thee  the  unnamed  smouldering  fire 
Within  our  hearts  turns  to  desire 
Sweet,  amorous,  half  satisfied ; 
Through  thee  the  doubtful  years  untried 
Seem  fair  to  us  and  fortunate, 
In  spite  of  death,  in  spite  of  fate. 


"0  DEATH,  THAT  MAKETH  LIFE  SO  SWEET."    95 


•0  DEATH,  THAT  MAKETH  LIFE  SO  SWEET.15" 

0  DEATH,  that  maketh  life  so  sweet, 
O  fear,  with  mirth  before  thy  feet, 
What  have  ye  yet  in  store  for  us, 
The  conquerors,  the  glorious  ? 

Men  say :  "  For  fear  that  thou  shouldst  die 
To-morrow,  let  to-day  pass  by 
Flower-crowned  and  singing  ;  "  yet  have  we 
Passed  our  to-day  upon  the  sea, 
Or  in  a  poisonous  unknown  land, 
With  fear  and  death  on  either  hand, 
And  listless  when  the  day  was  done 
Have  scarcely  hoped  to  see  the  sun 
Dawn  on  the  morrow  of  the  earth, 
Nor  in  our  hearts  have  thought  of  mirth. 
And  while  the  world  lasts,  scarce  again 
Shall  any  sons  of  men  bear  pain 
Like  we  have  borne,  yet  be  alive. 

So  surely  not  in  vain  we  strive 
Like  other  men  for  our  reward  ; 
Sweet  peace  and  deep,  the  chequered  sward 
Beneath  the  ancient  mulberry-trees, 
The  smooth-paved  gilded  palaces, 
Where  the  shy  thin-clad  damsels  sweet 
Make  music  with  their  gold-ringed  feet. 
The  fountain  court  amidst  of  it, 
Where  the  short-haired  slave  maidens  sit, 
While  on  the  veined  pavement  lie 
The  honied  things  and  spicery 
Their  arms  have  borne  from  out  the  town. 

The  dancers  on  the  thymy  down 
In  summer  twilight,  when  the  earth 
Is  still  of  all  things  but  their  mirth, 
And  echoes  borne  upon  the  wind 
Of  others  in  like  way  entwined. 

The  merchant-town's  fair  market-place, 
Where  over  many  a  changing  face 
The  pigeons  of  the  temple  flit, 
And  still  the  outland  merchants  sit 


96  THE  LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF  JASON. 

Like  kings  above  their  merchandise, 
Lying  to  foolish  men  and  wise. 

Ah  !  if  they  heard  that  we  were  come 
Into  the  bay,  and  bringing  home 
That  which  all  men  have  talked  about, 
Some  men  with  rage,  and  some  with  doubt, 
Some  with  desire,  and  some  with  praise ; 
Then  would  the  people  throng  the  ways, 
Nor  heed  the  outland  merchandise, 
Nor  any  talk,  from  fools  or  wise, 
But  tales  of  our  accomplished  quest. 

What  soul  within  the  house  shall  rest 
When  we  come  home  ?     The  wily  king 
Shall  leave  his  throne  to  see  the  thing; 
No  man  shall  keep  the  landward  gate, 
The  hurried  traveller  shall  wait 
Until  our  bulwarks  graze  the  quay, 
Unslain  the  milk-white  bull  shall  be 
Beside  the  quivering  altar-flame ; 
Scarce  shall  the  maiden  clasp  for  shame 
Over  her  breast  the  raiment  thin 
The  morn  that  Argo  cometh  in. 

Then  cometh  happy  life  again 
That  payeth  well  our  toil  and  pain 
In  that  sweet  hour,  when  all  our  woe 
But  as  a  pensive  tale  we  know, 
Nor  yet  remember  deadly  fear ; 
For  surely  now  if  death  be  near, 
Unthought-of  is  it,  and  unseen 
When  sweet  is,  that  hath  bitter  been. 


THE  AKGONAUTS  AND   THE    SIKENS.16 

A  MOMENT  Jason  gazed,  then  through  the  waist 
Kan  swiftly,  and  with  trembling  hands  made  haste 
To  trim  the  sail,  then  to  the  tiller  ran, 
And  thrust  aside  the  skilled  Milesian  man, 
Who  with  half-open  mouth,  and  dreamy  eyes, 
Stood  steering  Argo  to  that  land  of  lies ; 
But  as  he  staggered  forward,  Jason's  hand 
Hard  on  the  tiller  steered  away  from  land, 


THE  ARGONAUTS  AND   THE  SIRENS.        97 

And  as  her  head  a  little  now  fell  off 

Unto  the  wide  sea,  did  he  shout  this  scoff 

To  Thracian  Orpheus :  "  Minstrel,  shall  we  die, 

Because  thou  hast  forgotten  utterly 

What  things  she  taught  thee  that  men  call  divine  ? 

Or  will  thy  measures  but  lead  folk  to  wine, 

And  scented  beds,  and  not  to  noble  deeds  ? 

Or  will  they  fail  as  fail  the  shepherd's  reeds 

Before  the  trumpet,  when  these  sea-witches 

Pipe  shrilly  to  the  washing  of  the  seas  ? 

I  am  a  man,  and  these  but  beasts,  but  thou 

Giving  these  souls,  that  all  were  men  ere  now, 

Shall  be  a  very  God  and  not  a  man ! " 

So  spake  he ;  but  his  fingers  Orpheus  ran 
Over  the  strings,  and  sighing  turned  away 
From  that  fair  ending  of  the  sunny  bay  ; 
But  as  his  well-skilled  hands  were  preluding 
What  his  heart  swelled  with,  they  began  to  sing 
With  pleading  voices  from  the  yellow  sands, 
Clustered  together,  with  appealing  hands 
Keached  out  to  Argo  as  the  great  sail  drew, 
While  o'er  their  white  limbs  sharp  the  spray  shower 

flew, 

Since  they  spared  not  to  set  white  feet  among 
The  cold  waves  heedless  of  their  honied  song. 

Sweetly  they  sang,  and  still  the  answer  came 
Piercing  and  clear  from  him,  as  bursts  the  flame 
From  out  the  furnace  in  the  moonless  night ; 
Yet,  as  their  words  are  no  more  known  aright, 
Through  lapse  of  many  ages,  and  no  man 
Can  any  more  across  the  waters  wan 
Behold  those  singing  women  of  the  sea, 
Once  more  I  pray  you  all  to  pardon  me, 
If  with  my  feeble  voice  and  harsh  I  sing 
From  what  dim  memories  may  chance  to  cling 
About  men's  hearts,  of  lovely  things  once  sung 
Beside  the  sea,  while  yet  the  world  was  young. 


THE  SIRENS. 

Alas !  poor  souls  and  timorous, 
Will  ye  draw  nigh  to  gaze  at  us 


98  THE  LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF  JASON. 

And  see  if  we  are  fair  indeed, 

For  such  as  we  shall  be  your  meed, 

There,  where  our  hearts  would  have  you  go. 

And  where  can  the  earth-dwellers  show 

In  any  land  such  loveliness 

As  that  wherewith  your  eyes  we  bless, 

0  wanderers  of  the  Minyae, 

Worn  toilers  over  land  and  sea  ? 

ORPHEUS. 

Fair  as  the  lightning  thwart  the  sky, 
As  sun-dyed  snow  upon  the  high 
Untrodden  heaps  of  threatening  stone 
The  eagle  looks  upon  alone, 
0  fair  as  the  doomed  victim's  wreath, 
0  fair  as  deadly  sleep  and  death, 
What  will  ye  with  them,  earthly  men, 
To  mate  your  three-score  years  and  ten  ? 
Toil  rather,  suffer  and  be  free, 
Betwixt  the  green  earth  and  the  sea. 


THE  SIRENS. 

Shall  we  not  rise  with  you  at  night, 
Up  through  the  shimmering  green  twilight, 
That  maketh  there  our  changeless  day, 
Then  going  through  the  moonlight  grey, 
Shall  we  not  sit  upon  these  sands, 
To  think  upon  the  troublous  lands 
Long  left  behind,  where  once  ye  were, 
When  every  day  brought  change  and  fear  ? 
There,  with  white  arms  about  you  twined, 
And  shuddering  somewhat  at  the  wind 
That  ye  rejoiced  erewhile  to  meet, 
Be  happy,  while  old  stories  sweet, 
Half  understood,  float  round  your  ears, 
And  fill  your  eyes  with  happy  tears. 

Ah !  while  we  sing  unto  you  there, 
As  now  we  sing,  with  yellow  hair 
Blown  round  about  these  pearly  limbs, 
While  underneath  the  grey  sky  swims 
The  light  shell-sailor  of  the  waves, 


THE  ARGONAUTS  AND   THE   SIRENS.        99 

And  to  our  song,  from  sea-filled  caves 
Booms  out  an  echoing  harmony, 
Shall  ye  not  love  the  peaceful  sea  ? 

ORPHEUS. 

Nigh  the  vine-covered  hillocks  green, 
In  days  agone,  have  I  not  seen 
The  brown-clad  maidens  amorous, 
Below  the  long  rose-trellised  house, 
Dance  to  the  querulous  pipe  and  shrill, 
When  the  grey  shadow  of  the  hill 
Was  lengthening  at  the  end  of  day  ? 
Not  shadowy  nor  pale  were  they, 
But  limbed  like  those  who  'twixt  the  trees, 
Follow  the  swift  of  Goddesses. 
Sunburnt  they  are  somewhat,  indeed, 
To  where  the  rough  brown  woollen  weed 
Is  drawn  across  their  bosoms  sweet, 
Or  cast  from  off  their  dancing  feet ; 
But  yet  the  stars,  the  moonlight  grey, 
The  water  wan,  the  dawn  of  day, 
Can  see  their  bodies  fair  and  white 
As  Hers,  who  once,  for  man's  delight, 
Before  the  world  grew  hard  and  old, 
Came  o'er  the  bitter  sea  and  cold ; 
And  surely  those  that  met  me  there, 
Her  handmaidens  and  subjects  were  ; 
And  shame-faced,  half-repressed  desire 
Had  lit  their  glorious  eyes  with  fire, 
That  maddens  eager  hearts  of  men. 
O  would  that  I  were  with  them  when 
The  risen  moon  is  gathering  light, 
And  yellow  from  the  homestead  white 
The  windows  gleam ;  but  verily 
This  waits  us  o'er  a  little  sea. 

THE  SIRENS. 

Come  to  the  land  where  none  grows  old, 
And  none  is  rash  or  over-bold, 
Nor  any  noise  there  is  or  war, 
Or  rumour  from  wild  lands  afar, 


100         THE  LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF  JASON. 

Or  plagues,  or  birth  and  death  of  kings ; 
No  vain  desire  of  unknown  things 
Shall  vex  you  there,  no  hope  or  fear 
Of  that  which  never  draweth  near ; 
But  in  that  lovely  land  and  still 
Ye  may  remember  what  ye  will, 
And  what  ye  will,  forget  for  aye. 

So  while  the  kingdoms  pass  away, 
Ye  sea-beat  hardened  toilers  erst, 
Unresting,  for  vain  fame  athirst, 
Shall  be  at  peace  for  evermore, 
With  hearts  fulfilled  of  Godlike  lore, 
And  calm,  unwavering  Godlike  love, 
No  lapse  of  time  can  turn  or  move. 
There,  ages  after  your  fair  Fleece 
Is  clean  forgotten,  yea,  and  Greece 
Is  no  more  counted  glorious, 
Alone  with  us,  alone  with  us, 
Alone  with  us,  dwell  happily, 
Beneath  our  trembling  roof  of  sea. 

ORPHEUS. 

Ah !  do  ye  weary  of  the  strife 
And  long  to  change  this  eager  life 
For  shadowy  and  dull  hopelessness, 
Thinking  indeed  to  gain  no  less 
Than  far  from  this  grey  light  to  lie, 
And  there  to  die  and  not  to  die, 
To  be  as  if  ye  ne'er  had  been, 
Yet  keep  your  memory  fresh  and  green, 
To  have  no  thought  of  good  or  ill, 
Yet  feed  your  fill  of  pleasure  still  ? 
O  idle  dream  !     Ah,  verily 
If  it  shall  happen  unto  me 
That  I  have  thought  of  anything, 
When  o'er  my  bones  the  sea-fowl  sing, 
And  I  lie  dead,  how  shall  I  pine 
For  those  fresh  joys  that  once  were  mine, 
On  this  green  fount  of  joy  and  mirth, 
The  ever  young  and  glorious  earth ; 
Then,  helpless,  shall  I  call  to  mind 
Thoughts  of  the  sweet  flower-scented  wind, 


THE  ARGONAUTS  AND   THE  SIRENS.      101 

The  dew,  the  gentle  rain  at  night, 
The  wonder-working  snow  and  white, 
The  song  of  birds,  the  water's  fall, 
The  sun  that  maketh  bliss  of  all ; 
Yea,  this  our  toil  and  victory, 
The  tyrannous  and  conquered  sea. 


THE  SIKENS. 

Ah,  will  ye  go,  and  whither  then 
Will  ye  go  from  us,  soon  to  die, 

To  fill  your  three-score  years  and  ten, 
With  many  an  unnamed  misery  ? 

And  this  the  wretchedest  of  all, 
That  when  upon  your  lonely  eyes 

The  last  faint  heaviness  shall  fall 
Ye  shall  bethink  you  of  our  cries. 

Come  back,  nor  grown  old,  seek  in  vain 
To  hear  us  sing  across  the  sea. 

Come  back,  come  back,  come  back  again, 
Come  back,  0  fearful  Minyae ! 


ORPHEUS. 

Ah,  once  again,  ah,  once  again, 

The  black  prow  plunges  through  the  sea, 

Nor  yet  shall  all  your  toil  be  vain, 
Nor  ye  forgot,  0  Minyae. 

In  such  wise  sang  the  Thracian,  in  such  wise 
Out  gushed  the  Sirens'  deadly  melodies  ; 
But  long  before  the  mingled  song  was  done, 
Back  to  the  oars  the  Minyae,  one  by  one, 
Slunk  silently ;  though  many  an  one  sighed  sore, 
As  his  strong  fingers  met  the  wood  once  more, 
And  from  his  breast  the  toilsome  breathing  came. 


102         THE   LIFE  AND  DEATH    OF  JASON. 


TO  GEOFFREY  CHAUCER.17 

WOULD  that  I 

Had  but  some  portion  of  that  mastery 
That  from  the  rose-hung  lanes  of  woody  Kent 
Through  these  five  hundred  years  such  songs  have  sent 
To  us,  who,  meshed  within  this  smoky  net 
Of  unrejoicing  labor,  love  them  yet. 
And  thou,  O  Master !  —  Yea,  my  Master  still, 
Whatever  feet  have  scaled  Parnassus'  hill, 
Since  like  thy  measures,  clear  and  sweet  and  strong, 
Thames'  stream  scarce  fettered  drave  the  dace  along 
Unto  the  bastioned  bridge,  his  only  chain.  — 
0  Master,  pardon  me,  if  yet  in  vain 
Thou  art  my  Master,  and  I  fail  to  bring 
Before  men's  eyes  the  image  of  the  thing 
My  heart  is  filled  with :  thou  whose  dreamy  eyes 
Beheld  the  flush  to  Cressid's  cheek  arise, 
When  Troilus  rode  up  the  praising  street, 
As  clearly  as  they  saw  thy  townsmen  meet 
Those  who  in  vineyards  of  Poictou  withstood 
The  glittering  horror  of  the  steel-topped  wood. 


THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

(SELECTIONS.) 


THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE.18 


AN  APOLOGY. 

OP  Heaven  or  Hell  I  have  no  power  to  sing, 
I  cannot  ease  the  burden  of  your  fears, 
Or  make  quick-coming  death  a  little  thing, 
Or  bring  again  the  pleasure  of  past  years, 
Nor  for  my  words  shall  ye  forget  your  tears, 
Or  hope  again,  for  aught  that  I  can  say, 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

But  rather,  when  aweary  of  your  mirth, 
From  full  hearts  still  unsatisfied  ye  sigh, 
And,  feeling  kindly  unto  all  the  earth, 
Grudge  every  minute  as  it  passes  by, 
Made  the  more  mindful  that  the  sweet  days  die  — 
—  Remember  me  a  little  then  I  pray, 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

The  heavy  trouble,  the  bewildering  care 
That  weighs  us  down  who  live  and  earn  our  bread, 
These  idle  verses  have  no  power  to  bear ; 
So  let  me  sing  of  names  remembered, 
Because  they,  living  not,  can  ne'er  be  dead, 
Or  long  time  take  their  memory  quite  away 
From  us  poor  singers  of  an  empty  day. 

Dreamer  of  dreams,  born  out  of  my  due  time, 
Why  should  I  strive  to  set  the  crooked  straight  ? 
Let  it  suffice  me  that  my  murmuring  rhyme 
Beats  with  light  wing  against  the  ivory  gate, 
Telling  a  tale  not  too  importunate 
To  those  who  in  the  sleepy  region  stay, 
Lulled  by  the  singer  of  an  empty  day. 
105 


106  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Folk  say,  a  wizard  to  a  northern  king 
At  Christmas-tide  such  wondrous  things  did  show, 
That  through  one  window  men  beheld  the  spring, 
And  through  another  saw  the  summer  glow, 
And  through  a  third  the  fruited  vines  a-row, 
While  still,  unheard,  but  in  its  wonted  way, 
Piped  the  drear  wind  of  that  December  day. 

So  with  this  Earthly  Paradise  it  is, 
If  ye  will  read  aright,  and  pardon  me, 
Who  strive  to  build  a  shadowy  isle  of  bliss 
Midmost  the  beating  of  the  steely  sea, 
Where  tossed  about  all  hearts  of  men  must  be ; 
Whose  ravening  monsters  mighty  men  shall  slay, 
Not  the  poor  singer  of  an  empty  day. 


THE  AUTHOB  TO  THE  HEADER 

THINK,  listener,  that  I  had  the  luck  to  stand, 
Awhile  ago  within  a  flowery  land, 
Fair  beyond  words ;  that  thence  I  brought  away 
Some  blossoms  that  before  my  footsteps  lay, 
Not  plucked  by  me,  not  over-fresh  or  bright ; 
Yet,  since  they  minded  me  of  that  delight, 
Within  the  pages  of  this  book  I  laid 
Their  tender  petals,  there  in  peace  to  fade. 
Dry  are  they  now,  and  void  of  all  their  scent 
And  lovely  colour,  yet  what  once  was  meant 
By  these  dull  stains,  some  men  may  yet  descry 
As  dead  upon  the  quivering  leaves  they  lie. 

Behold  them  here,  and  mock  me  if  you  will, 
But  yet  believe  no  scorn  of  men  can  kill 
My  love  of  that  fair  land  wherefrom  they  came, 
Where  midst  the  grass  their  petals  once  did  flame. 

Moreover,  since  that  land  as  ye  should  know, 
Bears  not  alone  the  gems  for  summer's  show, 
Or  gold  and  pearls  for  fresh  green-coated  spring, 
Or  rich  adornment  for  the  nickering  wing 


L'ENVOI.  107 

Of  fleeting  autumn,  but  hath  little  fear 
For  the  white  conqueror  of  the  fruitful  year ; 
So  in  these  pages  month  by  month  I  show 
Some  portion  of  the  flowers  that  erst  did  blow 
In  lovely  meadows  of  the  varying  land, 
Wherein  erewhile  I  had  the  luck  to  stand. 


L'ENVOI. 

HERE  are  we  for  the  last  time  face  to  face, 
Thou  and  I,  Book,  before  I  bid  thee  speed 
Upon  thy  perilous  journey  to  that  place 
For  which  I  have  done  on  thee  pilgrim's  weed, 
Striving  to  get  thee  all  things  for  thy  need — 

—  I  love  thee,  whatso  time  or  men  may  say 
Of  the  poor  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

Good  reason  why  I  love  thee,  e'en  if  thou 
Be  mocked  or  clean  forgot  as  time  wears  on ; 
For  ever  as  thy  fashioning  did  grow, 
Kind  word  and  praise  because  of  thee  I  won 
From  those  without  whom  were  my  world  all  gone, 
My  hope  fallen  dead,  my  singing  cast  away, 
And  I  set  soothly  in  an  empty  day. 

I  love  thee ;  yet  this  last  time  must  it  be 
That  thou  must  hold  thy  peace  and  I  must  speak, 
Lest  if  thou  babble  I  begin  to  see 
Thy  gear  too  thin,  thy  limbs  and  heart  too  weak, 
To  find  the  land  thou  goest  forth  to  seek  — 

—  Though  what  harm  if  thou  die  upon  the  way, 
Thou  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day  ? 

But  though  this  land  desired  thou  never  reach, 
Yet  folk  who  know  it  mayst  thou  meet  or  death ; 
Therefore  a  word  unto  thee  would  I  teach 
To  answer  these,  who,  noting  thy  weak  breath, 
Thy  wandering  eyes,  thy  heart  of  little  faith, 
May  make  thy  fond  desire  a  sport  and  play, 
Mocking  the  singer  of  an  empty  day. 


108  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

That  land's  name,  say'st  thou  ?  and  the  road  thereto  ? 
Nay,  Book,  thou  mockest,  saying  thou  know'st  it  not ; 
Surely  no  book  of  verse  I  ever  knew 
But  ever  was  the  heart  within  him  hot 
To  gain  the  Land  of  Matters  Unforgot  — 
—  There,  now  we  both  laugh  —  as  the  whole  world  may, 
At  us  poor  singers  of  an  empty  day. 

Nay,  let  it  pass,  and  hearken !    Hast  thou  heard 
That  therein  I  believe  I  have  a  friend, 
Of  whom  for  love  I  may  not  be  afeard  ? 
It  is  to  him  indeed  I  bid  thee  wend; 
Yea,  he  perchance  may  meet  thee  ere  thou  end, 
Dying  so  far  off  from  the  hedge  of  bay, 
Thou  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day  ! 

Well,  think  of  him,  I  bid  thee,  on  the  road, 
And  if  it  hap  that  midst  of  thy  defeat, 
Fainting  beneath  thy  follies'  heavy  load, 
My  Master,  GEOFFBY  CHAUCER,  thou  do  meet, 
Then  shalt  thou  win  a  space  of  rest  full  sweet ; 
Then  be  thou  bold,  and  speak  the  words  I  say, 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day  ! 

"  0  Master,  0  thou  great  of  heart  and  tongue, 
Thou  well  mayst  ask  me  why  I  wander  here, 
In  raiment  rent  of  stories  oft  besung  ! 
But  of  thy  gentleness  draw  thou  anear, 
And  then  the  heart  of  one  who  held  thee  dear 
Mayst  thou  behold !     So  near  as  that  I  lay 
Unto  the  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

"  For  this  he  ever  said,  who  sent  me  forth 
To  seek  a  place  amid  thy  company ; 
That  howsoever  little  was  my  worth, 
Yet  was  he  worth  e'en  just  so  much  as  I ; 
He  said  that  rhyme  hath  little  skill  to  lie ; 
Nor  feigned  to  cast  his  worser  part  away ; 
In  idle  singing  for  an  empty  day. 

"  I  have  beheld  him  tremble  oft  enough 
At  things  he  could  not  choose  but  trust  to  me, 
Although  he  knew  the  world  was  wise  and  rough : 


L'ENVOL  109 

And  never  did  he  fail  to  let  me  see 
His  love,  —  his  folly  and  faithlessness,  maybe ; 
And  still  in  turn  I  gave  him  voice  to  pray 
Such  prayers  as  cling  about  an  empty  day. 

"  Thou,  keen-eyed,  reading  me,  mayst  read  him  through, 
For  surely  little  is  there  left  behind ; 
No  power  great  deeds  unnameable  to  do; 
No  knowledge  for  which  words  he  may  not  find, 
No  love  of  things  as  vague  as  autumn  wind  — 

—  Earth  of  the  earth  lies  hidden  by  my  clay, 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day ! 

"  Children  we  twain  are,  saith  he,  late  made  wise 
In  love,  but  in  all  else  most  childish  still, 
And  seeking  still  the  pleasure  of  our  eyes, 
And  what  our  ears  with  sweetest  sounds  may  fill ; 
Not  fearing  Love,  lest  these  things  he  should  kill ; 
Howe'er  his  pain  by  pleasure  doth  he  lay, 
Making  a  strange  tale  of  an  empty  day. 

"  Death  have  we  hated,  knowing  not  what  it  meant ; 
Life  have  we  loved,  through  green  leaf  and  through  sere, 
Though  still  the  less  we  knew  of  its  intent: 
The  Earth  and  Heaven  through  countless  year  on  year, 
Slow  changing,  were  to  us  but  curtains  fair, 
Hung  round  about  a  little  room,  where  play 
Weeping  and  laughter  of  man's  empty  day. 

"  O  Master,  if  thine  heart  could  love  us  yet, 
Spite  of  things  left  undone,  and  wrongly  done, 
Some  place  in  loving  hearts  then  should  we  get, 
For  thou,  sweet-souled,  didst  never  stand  alone, 
But  knew'st  the  joy  and  woe  of  many  an  one  — 

—  By  lovers  dead,  who  live  through  thee,  we  pray, 
Help  thou  us  singers  of  an  empty  day  ! " 

Fearest  thou,  Book,  what  answer  thou  mayst  gain 
Lest  he  should  scorn  thee,  and  thereof  thou  die  ? 
Nay,  it  shall  not  be.  —  Thou  mayst  toil  in  vain, 
And  never  draw  the  House  of  Fame  anigh ; 
Yet  he  and  his  shall  know  whereof  we  cry, 
Shall  call  it  not  ill  done  to  strive  to  lay 
The  ghosts  that  crowd  about  life's  empty  day. 


110  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Then  let  the  others  go !  and  if  indeed 
In  some  old  garden  thou  and  I  have  wrought, 
And  made  fresh  flowers  spring  up  from  hoarded  seed, 
And  fragrance  of  old  days  and  deeds  have  brought 
Back  to  folk  weary ;  all  was  not  for  nought. 
—  No  little  part  it  was  for  me  to  play  — 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 


THE  MONTHS.19 
MARCH. 

SLAYER  of  the  winter,  art  thou  here  again  ? 
0  welcome,  thou  that  bring'st  the  summer  nigh! 
The  bitter  wind  makes  not  thy  victory  vain, 
Nor  will  we  mock  thee  for  thy  faint  blue  sky. 
Welcome,  O  March  !  whose  kindly  days  and  dry 
Make  April  ready  for  the  throstle's  song, 
Thou  first  redresser  of  the  winter's  wrong ! 

Yea,  welcome  March !  and  though  I  die  ere  June, 
Yet  for  the  hope  of  life  I  give  thee  praise, 
Striving  to  swell  the  burden  of  the  tune 
That  even  now  I  hear  thy  brown  birds  raise, 
Unmindful  of  the  past  or  coming  days ; 
Who  sing :  "  0  joy  !  a  new  year  is  begun : 
What  happiness  to  look  upon  the  sun !  " 

Ah,  what  begetteth  all  this  storm  of  bliss 
But  death  himself,  who  crying  solemnly, 
E'en  from  the  heart  of  sweet  Forgetfulness, 
Bids  us  "  Rejoice,  lest  pleasureless  ye  die. 
Within  a  little  time  must  ye  go  by. 
Stretch  forth  your  open  hands,  and  while  ye  live 
Take  all  the  gifts  that  Death  and  Life  may  give." 

APRIL. 

O  fair  midspring,  besung  so  oft  and  oft, 
How  can  I  praise  thy  loveliness  enow  ? 
Thy  sun  that  burns  not,  and  thy  breezes  soft 


THE   MONTHS.  Ill 

That  o'er  the  blossoms  of  the  orchard  blow, 

The  thousand  things  that  'neath  the  young  leaves  grow, 

The  hopes  and  chances  of  the  growing  year, 

Winter  forgotten  long,  and  summer  near. 

When  summer  brings  the  lily  and  the  rose, 
She  brings  us  fear ;  her  very  death  she  brings 
Hid  in  her  anxious  heart,  the  forge  of  woes  ; 
And,  dull  with  fear,  no  more  the  mavis  sings. 
But  thou  !  thou  diest  not,  but  thy  fresh  life  clings 
About  the  fainting  autumn's  sweet  decay, 
When  in  the  earth  the  hopeful  seed  they  lay. 

Ah !  life  of  all  the  year,  why  yet  do  I 
Amid  thy  snowy  blossoms'  fragrant  drift, 
Still  long  for  that  which  never  draweth  nigh, 
Striving  my  pleasure  from  my  pain  to  sift, 
Some  weight  from  off  my  fluttering  mirth  to  lift  ? 
— Now,  when  far  bells  are  ringing,  "  Come  again, 
Come  back,  past  years  !  why  will  ye  pass  in  vain  ?  " 


MAY. 

O  love,  this  morn  when  the  sweet  nightingale 
Had  so  long  finished  all  he  had  to  say, 
That  thou  hadst  slept,  and  sleep  had  told  his  tale ; 
And  midst  a  peaceful  dream  had  stolen  away 
In  fragrant  dawning  of  the  first  of  May, 
Didst  thou  see  aught  ?  didst  thou  hear  voices  sing 
Ere  to  the  risen  sun  the  bells  'gan  ring  ? 

For  then  methought  the  Lord  of  Love  went  by 
To  take  possession  of  his  flowery  throne, 
Ringed  round  with  maids,  and  youths,  and  minstrelsy ; 
A  little  while  I  sighed  to  find  him  gone, 
A  little  while  the  dawning  was  alone, 
And  the  light  gathered ;  then  I  held  my  breath, 
And  shuddered  at  the  sight  of  Eld  and  Death. 

Alas !  Love  passed  me  in  the  twilight  dun, 
His  music  hushed  the  wakening  ousel's  song ; 
But  on  these  twain  shone  out  the  golden  sun, 


112  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  o'er  their  heads  the  brown  bird's  tune  was  strong, 
As  shivering,  'twixt  the  trees  they  stole  along ; 
None  noted  aught  their  noiseless  passing  by, 
The  world  had  quite  forgotten  it  must  die. 

JUNE. 

O  June,  O  June,  that  we  desired  so, 
Wilt  thou  not  make  us  happy  on  this  day  ? 
Across  the  river  thy  soft  breezes  blow 
Sweet  with  the  scent  of  beanfields  far  away, 
Above  our  heads  rustle  the  aspens  grey, 
Calm  is  the  sky  with  harmless  clouds  beset, 
No  thought  of  storm  the  morning  vexes  yet. 

See,  we  have  left  our  hopes  and  fears  behind 
To  give  our  very  hearts  up  unto  thee ; 
What  better  place  than  this  then  could  we  find 
By  this  sweet  stream  that  knows  not  of  the  sea, 
That  guesses  not  the  city's  misery, 
This  little  stream  whose  hamlets  scarce  have  names, 
This  far-off,  lonely  mother  of  the  Thames  ? 

Here  then,  0  June,  thy  kindness  will  we  take  ; 
And  if  indeed  but  pensive  men  we  seem, 
What  should  we  do  ?  thou  wouldst  not  have  us  wake 
From  out  the  arms  of  this  rare  happy  dream 
And  wish  to  leave  the  murmur  of  the  stream, 
The  rustling  boughs,  the  twitter  of  the  birds, 
And  all  thy  thousand  peaceful  happy  words. 

JULY. 

Fair  was  the  morn  to-day,  the  blossoms'  scent 
Floated  across  the  fresh  grass,  and  the  bees 
With  low  vexed  song  from  rose  to  lily  went; 
A  gentle  wind  was  in  the  heavy  trees, 
And  thine  eyes  shone  with  joyous  memories ; 
Fair  was  the  early  morn,  and  fair  wert  thou, 
And  I  was  happy  —  Ah,  be  happy  now  ! 

Peace  and  content  without  us,  love  within 
That  hour  there  was,  now  thunder  and  wild  rain 


THE  MONTHS.  113 

Have  wrapped  the  cowering  world,  and  foolish  sin, 
And  nameless  pride,  have  made  us  wise  in  vain; 
Ah,  love !  although  the  morn  shall  coine  again, 
And  on  new  rose-buds  the  new  sun  shall  smile, 
Can  we  regain  what  we  have  lost  meanwhile  ? 

E'en  now  the  west  grows  clear  of  storm  and  threat, 
But  midst  the  lightning  did  the  fair  sun  die  — 
—  Ah,  he  shall  rise  again  for  ages  yet, 
He  cannot  waste  his  life  —  but  thou  and  I  — 
Who  knows  if  next  morn  this  felicity 
My  lips  may  feel,  or  if  thou  still  shalt  live 
This  seal  of  love  renewed  once  more  to  give  ? 

AUGUST. 

Across  the  gap  made  by  our  English  hinds, 
Amidst  the  Romans'  handiwork,  behold 
Far  off  the  long-roofed  church ;  the  shepherd  binds 
The  withy  round  the  hurdles  of  his  fold, 
Down  in  the  foss  the  river  fed  of  old, 
That  through  long  lapse  of  time  has  grown  to  be 
The  little  grassy  valley  that  you  see. 

Best  here  awhile,  not  yet  the  eve  is  still, 
The  bees  are  wandering  yet,  and  you  may  hear 
The  barley  mowers  on  the  trenched  hill, 
The  sheep-bells,  and  the  restless  changing  weir, 
All  little  sounds  made  musical  and  clear 
Beneath  the  sky  that  burning  August  gives, 
While  yet  the  thought  of  glorious  Summer  lives. 

Ah,  love !  such  happy  days,  such  days  as  these, 
Must  we  still  waste  them,  craving  for  the  best, 
Like  lovers  o'er  the  painted  images 
Of  those  who  once  their  yearning  hearts  have  blessed  ? 
Have  we  been  happy  on  our  day  of  rest  ? 
Thine  eyes  say  "  yes,"  —  but  if  it  came  again, 
Perchance  its  ending  would  not  seem  so  vain. 

SEPTEMBER. 

0  come  at  last,  to  whom  the  spring-tide's  hope 
Looked  for  through  blossoms,  what  hast  thou  for  me  ? 


114  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Green  grows  the  grass  upon  the  dewy  slope 
Beneath  thy  gold-hung,  grey-leaved  apple-tree 
Moveless,  e'en  as  the  autumn  fain  would  be 
That  shades  its  sad  eyes  from  the  rising  sun 
And  weeps  at  eve  because  the  day  is  done. 

What  vision  wilt  thou  give  me,  autumn  morn, 
To  make  thy  pensive  sweetness  more  complete  ? 
What  tale,  ne'er  to  be  told,  of  folk  unborn  ? 
What  images  of  grey-clad  damsels  sweet 
Shall  cross  thy  sward  with  dainty  noiseless  feet  ? 
What  nameless  shamefast  longings  made  alive, 
Soft-eyed  September,  will  thy  sad  heart  give? 

Look  long,  0  longing  eyes,  and  look  in  vain ! 
Strain  idly,  aching  heart,  and  yet  be  wise, 
And  hope  no  more  for  things  to  come  again 
That  thou  beheldest  once  with  careless  eyes ! 
Like  a  new-wakened  man  thou  art,  who  tries 
To  dream  again  the  dream  that  made  him  glad 
When  in  his  arms  his  loving  love  he  had. 

OCTOBER. 

0  love,  turn  from  the  unchanging  sea  and  gaze 
Down  these  grey  slopes  upon  the  year  grown  old, 
A-dying  mid  the  autumn-scented  haze, 
That  hangeth  o'er  the  hollow  in  the  wold, 
Where  the  wind-bitten  ancient  elms  enfold 
Grey  church,  long  barn,  orchard,  and  red-roofed  stead, 
Wrought  in  dead  days  for  men  a  long  while  dead. 

Come  down,  0  love ;  may  not  our  hands  still  meet, 
Since  still  we  live  to-day,  forgetting  June, 
Forgetting  May,  deeming  October  sweet  — 
—  0  hearken,  hearken !  through  the  afternoon, 
The  grey  tower  sings  a  strange  old  tinkling  tune ! 
Sweet,  sweet,  and  sad,  the  toiling  year's  last  breath, 
Too  satiate  of  life  to  strive  with  death. 

And  we  too  —  will  it  not  be  soft  and  kind, 
That  rest  from  life,  from  patience  and  from  pain ; 
That  rest  from  bliss  we  know  not  when  we  find ; 


THE  MONTHS.  115 

That  rest  from  Love  which  ne'er  the  end  can  gain  ?  — 
—  Hark,  how  the  tune  swells,  that  erewhile  did  wane  ! 
Look  up,  love !  —  ah,  cling  close  and  never  move ! 
How  can  I  have  enough  of  life  and  love  ? 

NOVEMBEB. 

Are  thine  eyes  weary  ?  is  thy  heart  too  sick 
To  struggle  any  more  with  doubt  and  thought, 
Whose  formless  veil  draws  darkening  now  and  thick 
Across  thee,  e'en  as  smoke-tinged  mist-wreaths  brought 
Down  a  fair  dale  to  make  it  blind  and  nought  ? 
Art  thou  so  weary  that  no  world  there  seems 
Beyond  these  four  walls,  hung  with  pain  and  dreams  ? 

Look  out  upon  the  real  world,  where  the  moon, 
Half-way  'twixt  root  and  crown  of  these  high  trees, 
Turns  the  dead  midnight  into  dreamy  noon, 
Silent  and  full  of  wonders,  for  the  breeze 
Died  at  the  sunset,  and  no  images, 
No  hopes  of  day,  are  left  in  sky  or  earth  — 
Is  it  not  fair,  and  of  most  wondrous  worth  ? 

Yea,  I  have  looked,  and  seen  November  there ; 
The  changeless  seal  of  change  it  seemed  to  be, 
Fair  death  of  things  that,  living  once,  were  fair; 
Bright  sign  of  loneliness  too  great  for  me, 
Strange  image  of  the  dread  eternity, 
In  whose  void  patience  how  can  these  have  part, 
These  outstretched  feverish  hands,  this  restless  heart  ? 

DECEMBER. 

Dead  lonely  night  and  all  streets  quiet  now, 
Thin  o'er  the  moon  the  hindmost  cloud  swims  past 
Of  that  great  rack  that  brought  us  up  the  snow ; 
On  earth  strange  shadows  o'er  the  snow  are  cast ; 
Pale  stars,  bright  moon,  swift  cloud  make  heaven  so  vast 
That  earth  left  silent  by  the  wind  of  night 
Seems  shrunken  'neath  the  grey  unmeasured  height. 

Ah !  through  the  hush  the  looked-f  or  midnight  clangs ! 
And  then,  e'en  while  its  last  stroke's  solemn  drone 


116  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

In  the  cold  air  by  unlit  windows  hangs, 
Out  break  the  bells  above  the  year  foredone, 
Change,  kindness  lost,  love  left  unloved  alone ; 
Till  their  despairing  sweetness  makes  thee  deem 
Thou  once  wert  loved,  if  but  amidst  a  dream. 

O  thou  who  clingest  still  to  life  and  love, 
Though  nought  of  good,  no  God  thou  mayst  discern, 
Though  nought  that  is,  thine  utmost  woe  can  move, 
Though  no  soul  knows  wherewith  thine  heart  doth  yearn, 
Yet,  since  thy  weary  lips  no  curse  can  learn, 
Cast  no  least  thing  thou  lovedst  once  away, 
Since  yet  perchance  thine  eyes  shall  see  the  day. 

JANUARY. 

From  this  dull  rainy  undersky  and  low, 
This  murky  ending  of  a  leaden  day, 
That  never  knew  the  sun,  this  half-thawed  snow, 
These  tossing  black  boughs  faint  against  the  grey 
Of  gathering  night,  thou  turnest,  dear,  away 
Silent,  but  with  thy  scarce-seen  kindly  smile 
Sent  through  the  dusk  my  longing  to  beguile. 

There,  the  lights  gleam,  and  all  is  dark  without ! 
And  in  the  sudden  change  our  eyes  meet  dazed  — 
O  look,  love,  look  again  !  the  veil  of  doubt 
Just  for  one  flash,  past  counting,  then  was  raised ! 
0  eyes  of  heaven,  as  clear  thy  sweet  soul  blazed 
On  mine  a  moment !     0  come  back  again 
Strange  rest  and  dear  amid  the  long  dull  pain ! 

Nay,  nay,  gone  by !  though  there  she  sitteth  still, 
With  wide  grey  eyes  so  frank  and  fathomless  — 
Be  patient,  heart,  thy  days  they  yet  shall  fill 
With  utter  rest — Yea,  now  thy  pain  they  bless, 
And  feed  thy  last  hope  of  the  world's  redress  — 
0  unseen  hurrying  rack  !     0  wailing  wind ! 
What  rest  and  where  go  ye  this  night  to  find  ? 

FEBRUARY. 

Noon  —  and  the  north-west  sweeps  the  empty  road, 
The  rain-washed  fields  from  hedge  to  hedge  are  bare ; 


SONG.  117 

Beneath  the  leafless  elms  some  hind's  abode 
Looks  small  and  void,  and  no  smoke  meets  the  air 
From  its  poor  hearth  j  one  lonely  rook  doth  dare 
The  gale,  and  beats  above  the  unseen  corn, 
Then  turns,  and  whirling  down  the  wind  is  borne. 

Shall  it  not  hap  that  on  some  dawn  of  May 
Thou  shalt  awake,  and,  thinking  of  days  dead, 
See  nothing  clear  but  this  same  dreary  day, 
Of  all  the  days  that  have  passed  o'er  thine  head  ? 
Shalt  thou  not  wonder,  looking  from  thy  bed, 
Through  green  leaves  on  the  windless  east  afire, 
That  this  day  too  thine  heart  doth  still  desire  ? 

Shalt  thou  not  wonder  that  it  liveth  yet, 
The  useless  hope,  the  useless  craving  pain, 
That  made  thy  face,  that  lonely  noontide,  wet 
With  more  than  beating  of  the  chilly  rain  ? 
Shalt  thou  not  hope  for  joy  new  born  again, 
Since  no  grief  ever  born  can  ever  die 
Through  changeless  change  of  seasons  passing  by  ? 


SONG.20 
From  THE  LOVE  OF  ALCESTIS. 

O  DWELLERS  on  the  lovely  earth, 

Why  will  ye  break  your  rest  and  mirth 

To  weary  us  with  fruitless  prayer  ; 

Why  will  ye  toil  and  take  such  care 

For  children's  children  yet  unborn, 

And  garner  store  of  strife  and  scorn 

To  gain  a  scarce-remembered  name, 

Cumbered  with  lies  and  soiled  with  shame  ? 

And  if  the  gods  care  not  for  you, 

What  is  this  folly  ye  must  do 

To  win  some  mortal's  feeble  heart  ? 

O  fools !  when  each  man  plays  his  part, 

And  heeds  his  fellow  little  more 

Than  these  blue  waves  that  kiss  the  shore 


118  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Take  heed  of  how  the  daisies  grow. 
0  fools  !  and  if  ye  could  but  know 
How  fair  a  world  to  you  is  given. 

0  brooder  on  the  hills  of  heaven, 
When  for  my  sin  thou  drav'st  me  forth, 
Hadst  thou  forgot  what  this  was  worth, 
Thine  own  hand  had  made  ?    The  tears  of  men, 
The  death  of  threescore  years  and  ten, 
The  trembling  of  the  timorous  race  — 
Had  these  things  so  bedimmed  the  place 
Thine  own  hand  made,  thou  couldst  not  know 
To  what  a  heaven  the  earth  might  grow 
If  fear  beneath  the  earth  were  laid, 
If  hope  failed  not,  nor  love  decayed  ? 


SONG.a 
From  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE. 

O  PENSIVE,  tender  maid,  downcast  and  shy, 
Who  turnest  pale  e'en  at  the  name  of  love, 
And  with  flushed  face  must  pass  the  elm-tree  by, 
Ashamed  to  hear  the  passionate  grey  dove 
Moan  to  his  mate,  thee  too  the  god  shall  move, 
Thee  too  the  maidens  shall  ungird  one  day, 
And  with  thy  girdle  put  thy  shame  away. 

What  then,  and  shall  white  winter  ne'er  be  done 
Because  the  glittering  frosty  morn  is  fair  ? 
Because  against  the  early-setting  sun 
Bright  show  the  gilded  boughs,  though  waste  and  bare  ? 
Because  the  robin  singeth  free  from  care  ? 
Ah  !  these  are  memories  of  a  better  day 
When  on  earth's  face  the  lips  of  summer  lay. 

Come  then,  beloved  one,  for  such  as  thee 
Love  loveth,  and  their  hearts  he  knoweth  well, 
Who  hoard  their  moments  of  felicity, 
As  misers  hoard  the  medals  that  they  tell, 
Lest  on  the  earth  but  paupers  they  should  dwell: 


SONG.  H9 

"  We  hide  our  love  to  bless  another  day ; 

The  world  is  hard,  youth  passes  quick,"  they  say. 

Ah,  little  ones,  but  if  ye  could  forget 
Amidst  your  outpoured  love  that  you  must  die, 
Then  ye,  my  servants,  were  death's  conquerors  yet, 
And  love  to  you  should  be  eternity, 
How  quick  soever  might  the  days  go  by : 
Yes,  ye  are  made  immortal  on  the  day 
Ye  cease  the  dusty  grains  of  time  to  weigh. 

Thou  hearkenest,  love  ?     0,  make  no  semblance  then 
That  thou  art  loved,  but  as  thy  custom  is 
Turn  thy  grey  eyes  away  from  eyes  of  men. 
With  hands  down-dropped,  that  tremble  with  thy  bliss, 
With  hidden  eyes,  take  thy  first  lover's  kiss ; 
Call  this  eternity  which  is  to-day, 
Nor  dream  that  this  our  love  can  pass  away. 


SONG. 
From  THE  HILL  OF  VENUS. 

BEFORE  our  lady  came  on  earth 
Little  there  was  of  joy  or  mirth ; 
About  the  borders  of  the  sea 
The  sea-folk  wandered  heavily ; 
About  the  wintry  river  side 
The  weary  fishers  would  abide. 

Alone  within  the  weaving-room 
The  girls  would  sit  before  the  loom, 
And  sing  no  song,  and  play  no  play ; 
Alone  from  dawn  to  hot  mid-day, 
From  mid-day  unto  evening, 
The  men  afield  would  work,  nor  sing, 
'Mid  weary  thoughts  of  man  and  God, 
Before  thy  feet  the  wet  ways  trod. 

Unkissed  the  merchant  bore  his  care, 
Unkissed  the  knights  went  out  to  war, 


120  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Unkissed  the  mariner  came  home, 
Unkissed  the  minstrel  men  did  roam. 

Or  in  the  stream  the  maids  would  stare, 
Nor  know  why  they  were  made  so  fair ; 
Their  yellow  locks,  their  bosoms  white, 
Their  limbs  well  wrought  for  all  delight, 
Seemed  foolish  things  that  waited  death, 
As  hopeless  as  the  flowers  beneath 
The  weariness  of  unkissed  feet : 
No  life  was  bitter  then,  or  sweet. 

Therefore,  0  Venus,  well  may  we 
Praise  the  green  ridges  of  the  sea 
O'er  which,  upon  a  happy  day, 
Thou  cam'st  to  take  our  shame  away. 
Well  may  we  praise  the  curdling  foam 
Amidst  the  which  thy  feet  did  bloom, 
Flowers  of  the  gods ;  the  yellow  sand 
They  kissed  atwixt  the  sea  and  land ; 
The  bee-beset  ripe-seeded  grass, 
Through  which  thy  fine  limbs  first  did  pass; 
The  purple-dusted  butterfly, 
First  'blown  against  thy  quivering  thigh ; 
The  first  red  rose  that  touched  thy  side, 
And  over-blown  and  fainting  died ; 
The  flickering  of  the  orange  shade, 
Where  first  in  sleep  thy  limbs  were  laid ; 
The  happy  day's  sweet  life  and  death, 
Whose  air  first  caught  thy  balmy  breath  — 
Yea,  all  these  things  well  praised  may  be, 
But  with  what  words  shall  we  praise  thee  — 
O  Venus,  0  thou  love  alive, 
Born  to  give  peace  to  souls  that  strive  ? 


SONG. 
From  THE  MAN  WHO  NEVEB  LAUGHED  AGAIN. 

O  THOU  who  drawest  nigh  across  the  sea, 
0  heart  that  seekest  Love  perpetually, 
Nor  know'st  his  name,  come  now  at  last  to  me  1 


*         ATALANTA'S  RACE.  121 

Come,  thirst  of  love  thy  lips  too  long  have  borne, 
Hunger  of  love  thy  heart  hath  long  outworn, 
Speech  hadst  thou  but  to  call  thyself  forlorn. 

The  seeker  finds  now,  the  parched  lips  are  led 
To  sweet  full  streams,  the  hungry  heart  is  fed, 
And  song  springs  up  from  moans  of  sorrow  dead. 

Draw  nigh,  draw  nigh,  and  tell  me  all  thy  tale ; 
In  words  grown  sweet  since  all  the  woe  doth  fail, 
Show  me  wherewith  thou  didst  thy  woe  bewail. 

Draw  nigh,  draw  nigh,  beloved !  think  of  these 
That  stand  around  as  well-wrought  images, 
Earless  and  eyeless  as  these  trembling  trees. 

I  think  the  sky  calls  living  none  but  three  : 
The  God  that  looketh  thence  and  thee  and  me; 
And  He  made  us,  but  we  made  Love  to  be. 

Think  not  of  time,  then,  for  thou  shalt  not  die 
How  soon  soever  shall  the  world  go  by, 
And  nought  be  left  but  God  and  thou  and  I. 

And  yet,  0  love,  why  makest  thou  delay  ? 
Life  comes  not  till  thou  comest,  and  the  day 
That  knows  no  end  may  yet  be  cast  away. 


ATALAXTA'S  EACE.22 

ARGUMENT. 

Atalanta,  daughter  of  King  Schceneus,  not  willing  to  lose  her 
virgin's  estate,  made  it  a  law  to  all  suitors  that  they  should  run  a 
race  with  her  in  the  public  place,  and  if  they  failed  to  overcome 
her  should  die  unrevenged  ;  and  thus  many  brave  men  perished. 
At  last  came  Milanion,  the  son  of  Amphidamas,  who,  outrunning 
her  with  the  help  of  Venus,  gained  the  virgin  and  wedded  her. 

THROUGH  thick  Arcadian  woods  a  hunter  went, 
Following  the  beasts  up,  on  a  fresh  spring  day ; 
But  since  his  horn-tipped  bow  but  seldom  bent, 
Now  at  the  noontide  nought  had  happed  to  slay, 
Within  a  vale  he  called  his  hounds  away, 


122  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Hearkening  the  echoes  of  his  lone  voice  cling 
About  the  cliffs  and  through  the  beech-trees  ring. 

But  when  they  ended,  still  awhile  he  stood, 
And  but  the  sweet  familiar  thrush  could  hear, 
And  all  the  day-long  noises  of  the  wood, 
And  o'er  the  dry  leaves  of  the  vanished  year 
His  hounds'  feet  pattering  as  they  drew  anear, 
And  heavy  breathing  from  their  heads  low  hung, 
To  see  the  mighty  cornel  bow  unstrung. 

Then  smiling  did  he  turn  to  leave  the  place, 
But  with  his  first  step  some  new  fleeting  thought 
A  shadow  cast  across  his  sun-burnt  face  ; 
I  think  the  golden  net  that  April  brought 
From  some  warm  world  his  wavering  soul  had  caught 
For,  sunk  in  vague  sweet  longing,  did  he  go 
Betwixt  the  trees  with  doubtful  steps  and  slow. 

Yet  howsoever  slow  he  went,  at  last 
The  trees  grew  sparser,  and  the  wood  was  done  ; 
Whereon  one  farewell  backward  look  he  cast, 
Then,  turning  round  to  see  what  place  was  won, 
With  shaded  eyes  looked  underneath  the  sun, 
And  o'er  green  meads  and  new-turned  furrows  brown 
Beheld  the  gleaming  of  King  Schceneus'  town. 

So  thitherward  he  turned,  and  on  each  side 
The  folk  were  busy  on  the  teeming  land, 
And  man  and  maid  from  the  brown  furrows  cried, 
Or  midst  the  newly-blossomed  vines  did  stand, 
And  as  the  rustic  weapon  pressed  the  hand 
Thought  of  the  nodding  of  the  well-filled  ear, 
Or  how  the  knife  the  heavy  bunch  should  shear. 

Merry  it  was :  about  him  sung  the  birds, 
The  spring  flowers  bloomed  along  the  firm  dry  road, 
The  sleek-skinned  mothers  of  the  sharp-horned  herds 
Now  for  the  barefoot  milking-maidens  lowed ; 
While  from  the  freshness  of  his  blue  abode, 
Glad  his  death-bearing  arrows  to  forget, 
The  broad  sun  blazed,  nor  scattered  plagues  as  yet. 


ATALANTA'S  RACE.  123 

Through  such  fair  things  unto  the  gates  he  came, 
And  found  them  open,  as  though  peace  were  there ; 
Wherethrough,  unquestioned  of  his  race  or  name, 
He  entered,  and  along  the  streets  'gan  fare, 
Which  at  the  first  of  folk  were  well-nigh  bare  j 
But  pressing  on,  and  going  more  hastily, 
Men  hurrying  too  he  'gan  at  last  to  see. 

Following  the  last  of  these,  he  still  pressed  on, 
Until  an  open  space  he  came  unto, 
Where  wreaths  of  fame  had  oft  been  lost  and  won, 
For  feats  of  strength  folk  there  were  wont  to  do. 
And  now  our  hunter  looked  for  something  new, 
Because  the  whole  wide  space  was  bare,  and  stilled 
The  high  seats  were,  with  eager  people  filled. 

There  with  the  others  to  a  seat  he  gat, 
Whence  he  beheld  a  broidered  canopy, 
'Neath  which  in  fair  array  King  Schoeneus  sat 
Upon  his  throne  with  councillors  thereby  ; 
And  underneath  his  well-wrought  seat  and  high, 
He  saw  a  golden  image  of  the  sun, 
A  silver  image  of  the  Fleet-foot  One. 

A  brazen  altar  stood  beneath  their  feet 
Whereon  a  thin  flame  flickered  in  the  wind, 
Nigh  this  a  herald  clad  in  raiment  meet 
Made  ready  even  now  his  horn  to  wind, 
By  whom  a  huge  man  held  a  sword,  entwined 
With  yellow  flowers ;  these  stood  a  little  space 
From  off  the  altar,  nigh  the  starting-place. 

And  there  two  runners  did  the  sign  abide 
Foot  set  to  foot,  —  a  young  man  slim  and  fair, 
Crisp-haired,  well  knit,  with  firm  limbs  often  tried 
In  places  where  no  man  his  strength  may  spare ; 
Dainty  his  thin  coat  was,  and  on  his  hair 
A  golden  circlet  of  renown  he  wore, 
And  in  his  hand  an  olive  garland  bore. 

But  on  this  day  with  whom  shall  he  contend  ? 
A  maid  stood  by  him  like  Diana  clad 


124  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

When  in  the  woods  she  lists  her  bow  to  bend, 
Too  fair  for  one  to  look  on  and  be  glad, 
Who  scarcely  yet  has  thirty  summers  had, 
If  he  must  still  behold  her  from  afar; 
Too  fair  to  let  the  world  live  free  from  war. 

She  seemed  all  earthly  matters  to  forget ; 
Of  all  tormenting  lines  her  face  was  clear, 
Her  wide  grey  eyes  upon  the  goal  were  set 
Calm  and  unmoved  as  though  no  soul  were  near ; 
But  her  foe  trembled  as  a  man  in  fear, 
Nor  from  her  loveliness  one  moment  turned 
His  anxious  face  with  fierce  desire  that  burned. 

Now  through  the  hush  there  broke  the  trumpet's  clang 
Just  as  the  setting  sun  made  eventide. 
Then  from  light  feet  a  spurt  of  dust  there  sprang, 
And  swiftly  were  they  running  side  by  side ; 
But  silent  did  the  thronging  folk  abide 
Until  the  turning-post  was  reached  at  last, 
And  round  about  it  still  abreast  they  passed. 

But  when  the  people  saw  how  close  they  ran, 
When  half-way  to  the  starting-point  they  were, 
A  cry  of  joy  broke  forth,  whereat  the  man 
Headed  the  white-foot  runner,  and  drew  near 
Unto  the  very  end  of  all  his  fear ; 
And  scarce  his  straining  feet  the  ground  could  feel, 
And  bliss  unhoped  for  o'er  his  heart  'gan  steal. 

But  midst  the  loud  victorious  shouts  he  heard 
Her  footsteps  drawing  nearer,  and  the  sound 
Of  fluttering  raiment,  and  thereat  afeard 
His  flushed  and  eager  face  he  turned  around, 
And  even  then  he  felt  her  past  him  bound 
Fleet  as  the  wind,  but  scarcely  saw  her  there 
Till  on  the  goal  she  laid  her  fingers  fair. 

There  stood  she  breathing  like  a  little  child 
Amid  some  warlike  clamour  laid  asleep, 
For  no  victorious  joy  her  red  lips  smiled, 
Her  cheek  its  wonted  freshness  did  but  keep ; 
No  glance  lit  up  her  clear  grey  eyes  and  deep, 


ATALANTA'S  RACE.  125 

Though  some  divine  thought  softened  all  her  face 
As  once  more  rang  the  trumpet  through  the  place. 

But  her  late  foe  stopped  short  amidst  his  course, 
One  moment  gazed  upon  her  piteously, 
Then  with  a  groan  his  lingering  feet  did  force 
To  leave  the  spot  whence  he  her  eyes  could  see  ; 
And,  changed  like  one  who  knows  his  time  must  be 
But  short  and  bitter,  without  any  word 
He  knelt  before  the  bearer  of  the  sword ; 

Then  high  rose  up  the  gleaming  deadly  blade, 
Bared  of  its  flowers,  and  through  the  crowded  place 
Was  silence  now,  and  midst  of  it  the  maid 
Went  by  the  poor  wretch  at  a  gentle  pace, 
And  he  to  hers  upturned  his  sad  white  face ; 
Nor  did  his  eyes  behold  another  sight 
Ere  on  his  soul  there  fell  eternal  night. 


So  was  the  pageant  ended,  and  all  folk 
Talking  of  this  and  that  familiar  thing 
In  little  groups  from  that  sad  concourse  broke, 
For  now  the  shrill  bats  were  upon  the  wing, 
And  soon  dark  night  would  slay  the  evening, 
And  in  dark  gardens  sang  the  nightingale 
Her  little-heeded,  oft-repeated  tale. 

And  with  the  last  of  all  the  hunter  went, 
Who,  wondering  at  the  strange  sight  he  had  seen, 
Prayed  an  old  man  to  tell  him  what  it  meant, 
Both  why  the  vanquished  man  so  slain  had  been, 
And  if  the  maiden  were  an  earthly  queen, 
Or  rather  what  much  more  she  seemed  to  be, 
No  sharer  in  the  world's  mortality. 

"  Stranger,"  said  he,  "  I  pray  she  soon  may  die 
Whose  lovely  youth  has  slain  so  many  an  one ! 
King  Schoeneus'  daughter  is  she  verily, 
Who  when  her  eyes  first  looked  upon  the  sun 
Was  fain  to  end  her  life  but  new  begun, 
For  he  had  vowed  to  leave  but  men  alone 
Sprung  from  his  loins  when  he  from  earth  was  gone. 


126  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

"  Therefore  he  bade  one  leave  her  in  the  wood, 
And  let  wild  things  deal  with  her  as  they  might, 
But  this  being  done,  some  cruel  god  thought  good 
To  save  her  beauty  in  the  world's  despite : 
Folk  say  that  her,  so  delicate  and  white 
As  now  she  is,  a  rough  root-grubbing  bear 
Amidst  her  shapeless  cubs  at  first  did  rear. 

"  In  course  of  time  the  woodfolks  slew  her  nurse, 
And  to  their  rude  abode  the  youngling  brought, 
And  reared  her  up  to  be  a  kingdom's  curse ; 
Who,  grown  a  woman,  of  no  kingdom  thought, 
But  armed  and  swift,  'mid  beasts  destruction  wrought, 
Nor  spared  two  shaggy  centaur  kings  to  slay 
To  whom  her  body  seemed  an  easy  prey. 

"  So  to  this  city,  led  by  fate,  she  came, 
Whom  known  by  signs,  whereof  I  cannot  tell, 
King  Schosneus  for  his  child  at  last  did  claim, 
Nor  otherwhere  since  that  day  doth  she  dwell 
Sending  too  many  a  noble  soul  to  hell  — 
What !  thine  eyes  glisten  !  what  then,  thinkest  thou 
Her  shining  head  unto  thy  yoke  to  bow  ? 

"  Listen,  my  son,  and  love  some  other  maid 
For  she  the  saffron  gown  will  never  wear, 
And  on  no  flower-strewn  couch  shall  she  be  laid, 
Nor  shall  her  voice  make  glad  a  lover's  ear : 
Yet  if  of  Death  thou  hast  not  any  fear, 
Yea,  rather,  if  thou  lov'st  him  utterly, 
Thou  still  may'st  woo  her  ere  thou  com'st  to  die, 

"Like  him  that  on  this  day  thou  sawest  lie  dead; 
For,  fearing  as  I  deem  the  sea-born  one, 
The  maid  has  vowed  e'en  such  a  man  to  wed 
As  in  the  course  her  swift  feet  can  outrun, 
But  whoso  fails  herein,  his  days  are  done : 
He  came  the  nighest  that  was  slain  to-day, 
Although  with  him  I  deem  she  did  but  play. 

"  Behold,  such  mercy  Atalanta  gives 
To  those  that  long  to  win  her  loveliness ; 


ATALANTA'S  RACE.  127 

Be  wise  !  be  sure  that  many  a  maid  there  lives 
Gentler  than  she,  of  beauty  little  less, 
Whose  swimming  eyes  thy  loving  words  shall  bless, 
When  in  some  garden,  knee  set  close  to  knee, 
Thou  sing'st  the  song  that  love  may  teach  to  thee." 

So  to  the  hunter  spake  that  ancient  man, 
And  left  him  for  his  own  home  presently : 
But  he  turned  round,  and  through  the  moonlight  wan 
Reached  the  thick  wood,  and  there  'twixt  tree  and  tree 
Distraught  he  passed  the  long  night  feverishly, 
'Twixt  sleep  and  waking,  and  at  dawn  arose 
To  wage  hot  war  against  his  speechless  foes. 

There  to  the  hart's  flank  seemed  his  shaft  to  grow, 
As  panting  down  the  broad  green  glades  he  flew, 
There  by  his  horn  the  Dryads  well  might  know 
His  thrust  against  the  bear's  heart  had  been  true, 
And  there  Adonis'  bane  his  javelin  slew, 
But  still  in  vain  through  rough  and  smooth  he  went, 
For  none  the  more  his  restlessness  was  spent. 

So  wandering,  he  to  Argive  cities  came, 
And  in  the  lists  with  valiant  men  he  stood, 
And  by  great  deeds  he  won  him  praise  arid  fame, 
And  heaps  of  wealth  for  little-valued  blood  ; 
But  none  of  all  these  things,  or  life,  seemed  good 
Unto  his  heart,  where  still  unsatisfied 
A  ravenous  longing  warred  with  fear  and  pride. 

Therefore  it  happed  when  but  a  month  had  gone 
Since  he  had  left  King  Schreneus'  city  old, 
In  hunting-gear  again,  again  alone 
The  forest-bordered  meads  did  he  behold, 
Where  still  'mid  thoughts  of  August  s  quivering  gold 
Folk  hoed  the  wheat,  and  clipped  the  vine  in  trust 
Of  faint  October's  purple-foaming  must. 

And  once  again  he  passed  the  peaceful  gate, 
While  to  his  beating  heart  his  lips  did  lie, 
That  owning  not  victorious  love  and  fate, 
Said,  half  aloud,  "  And  here  too  must  I  try, 
To  win  of  alien  men  the  mastery, 


128  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  gather  for  my  head  fresh  meed  of  fame 
And  cast  new  glory  on  my  father's  name." 

In  spite  of  that,  how  beat  his  heart,  when  first 
Folk  said  to  him,  "  And  art  thou  come  to  see 
That  which  still  makes  our  city's  name  accurst 
Among  all  mothers  for  its  cruelty  ? 
Then  know  indeed  that  fate  is  good  to  thee 
Because  to-morrow  a  new  luckless  one 
Against  the  whitefoot  maid  is  pledged  to  run." 

So  on  the  morrow  with  no  curious  eyes 
As  once  he  did,  that  piteous  sight  he  saw, 
Nor  did  that  wonder  in  his  heart  arise 
As  toward  the  goal  the  conquering  maid  'gan  draw, 
Nor  did  he  gaze  upon  her  eyes  with  awe, 
Too  full  the  pain  of  longing  filled  his  heart 
For  fear  or  wonder  there  to  have  a  part. 

But  0,  how  long  the  night  was  ere  it  went ! 
How  long  it  was  before  the  dawn  begun 
Showed  to  the  wakening  birds  the  sun's  intent 
That  not  in  darkness  should  the  world  be  done ! 
And  then,  and  then,  how  long  before  the  sun 
Bade  silently  the  toilers  of  the  earth 
Get  forth  to  fruitless  cares  or  empty  mirth ! 

And  long  it  seemed  that  in  the  market-place 
He  stood  and  saw  the  chaffering  folk  go  by, 
Ere  from  the  ivory  throne  King  Schoeneus'  face 
Looked  down  upon  the  murmur  royally, 
But  then  came  trembling  that  the  time  was  nigh 
When  he  midst  pitying  looks  his  love  must  claim, 
And  jeering  voices  must  salute  his  name. 

But  as  the  throng  he  pierced  to  gain  the  throne, 
His  alien  face  distraught  and  anxious  told 
What  hopeless  errand  he  was  bound  upon, 
And,  each  to  each,  folk  whispered  to  behold 
His  godlike  limbs ;  nay,  and  one  woman  old 
As  he  went  by  must  pluck  him  by  the  sleeve 
And  pray  him  yet  that  wretched  love  to  leave. 


ATALANTA'S  RACE.  129 

For  sidling  up  she  said,  "  Canst  thou  live  twice, 
Fair  son  ?  canst  thou  have  joyful  youth  again, 
That  thus  thou  goest  to  the  sacrifice 
Thyself  the  victim  ?  nay  then,  all  in  vain 
Thy  mother  bore  her  longing  and  her  pain, 
And  one  more  maiden  on  the  earth  must  dwell 
Hopeless  of  joy,  nor  fearing  death  and  hell. 

"  0  fool,  thou  knowest  not  the  compact  then 
That  with  the  three-formed  goddess  she  has  made 
To  keep  her  from  the  loving  lips  of  men, 
And  in  no  saffron  gown  to  be  arrayed, 
And  therewithal  with  glory  to  be  paid, 
And  love  of  her  the  moonlit  river  sees 
White  'gainst  the  shadow  of  the  formless  trees. 

"  Come  back,  and  I  myself  will  pray  for  thee 
Unto  the  sea-born  f  ramer  of  delights, 
To  give  thee  her  who  on  the  earth  may  be 
The  fairest  stirrer  up  to  death  and  fights, 
To  quench  with  hopeful  days  and  joyous  nights 
The  flame  that  doth  thy  youthful  heart  consume : 
Come  back,  nor  give  thy  beauty  to  the  tomb." 

How  should  he  listen  to  her  earnest  speech  ? 
Words,  such  as  he  not  once  or  twice  had  said 
Unto  himself,  whose  meaning  scarce  could  reach 
The  firm  abode  of  that  sad  hardihead  — 
He  turned  about,  and  through  the  marketstead 
Swiftly  he  passed,  until  before  the  throne 
In  the  cleared  space  he  stood  at  last  alone. 

Then  said  the  King,  "  Stranger,  what  dost  thou  here  ? 
Have  any  of  my  folk  done  ill  to  thee  ? 
Or  art  thou  of  the  forest  men  in  fear  ? 
Or  art  thou  of  the  sad  fraternity 
Who  still  will  strive  my  daughter's  mates  to  be, 
Staking  their  lives  to  win  to  earthly  bliss 
The  lonely  maid,  the  friend  of  Artemis  ?  " 

"  0  King,"  he  said,  "  thou  sayest  the  word  indeed ; 
Nor  will  I  quit  the  strife  till  I  have  won 


130  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

My  sweet  delight,  or  death  to  end  my  need. 
And  know  that  I  am  called  Milanion, 
Of  King  Amphidamas  the  well-loved  son : 
So  fear  not  that  to  thy  old  name,  0  King, 
Much  loss  or  shame  my  victory  will  bring." 

"Nay,  Prince,"  said  Schoeneus,  "welcome  to  this  land 
Thou  wert  indeed,  if  thou  wert  here  to  try 
Thy  strength  'gainst  some  one  mighty  of  his  hand ; 
Nor  would  we  grudge  thee  well-won  mastery. 
But  now,  why  wilt  thou  come  to  me  to  die, 
And  at  my  door  lay  down  thy  luckless  head, 
Swelling  the  band  of  the  unhappy  dead, 

"  Whose  curses  even  now  my  heart  doth  fear  ? 
Lo,  I  am  old,  and  know  what  life  can  be, 
And  what  a  bitter  thing  is  death  anear. 
0  Son  !  be  wise,  and  hearken  unto  me, 
And  if  no  other  can  be  dear  to  thee, 
At  least  as  now,  yet  is  the  world  full  wide, 
And  bliss  in  seeming  hopeless  hearts  may  hide : 

"  But  if  thou  losest  life,  then  all  is  lost." 
"  Nay,  King,"  Milanion  said,  "  thy  words  are  vain. 
Doubt  not  that  I  have  counted  well  the  cost. 
But  say,  on  what  day  wilt  thou  that  I  gain 
Fulfilled  delight,  or  death  to  end  my  pain  ? 
Bight  glad  were  I  if  it  could  be  to-day, 
And  all  my  doubts  at  rest  for  ever  lay." 

"Nay,"  said  King  Schoeneus,  "thus  it  shall  not  be, 
But  rather  shalt  thou  let  a  month  go  by, 
And  weary  with  thy  prayers  for  victory 
What  god  thou  know'st  the  kindest  and  most  nigh. 
So  doing,  still  perchance  thou  shalt  not  die : 
And  with  my  goodwill  wouldst  thou  have  the  maid, 
For  of  the  equal  gods  I  grow  afraid. 

"  And  until  then,  0  Prince,  be  thou  my  guest, 
And  all  these  troublous  things  awhile  forget." 

"  Nay,"  said  he,  "  couldst  thou  give  my  soul  good  rest, 
And  on  mine  head  a  sleepy  garland  set, 
Then  had  I  'scaped  the  meshes  of  the  net, 


ATALANTA'S  RACE.  131 

!N"or  shouldst  thou  hear  from  me  another  word ; 
But  now,  make  sharp  thy  fearful  heading-sword. 

"  Yet  will  I  do  what  son  of  man  may  do, 
And  promise  all  the  gods  may  most  desire, 
That  to  myself  I  may  at  least  be  true ; 
And  on  that  day  my  heart  and  limbs  so  tire, 
With  utmost  strain  and  measureless  desire, 
That,  at  the  worst,  I  may  but  fall  asleep 
When  in  the  sunlight  round  that  sword  shall  sweep." 

He  went  with  that,  nor  anywhere  would  bide, 
But  unto  Argos  restlessly  did  wend ; 
And  there,  as  one  who  lays  all  hope  aside, 
Because  the  leech  has  said  his  life  must  end, 
Silent  farewell  he  bade  to  foe  and  friend, 
And  took  his  way  unto  the  restless  sea, 
For  there  he  deemed  his  rest  and  help  might  be. 


Upon  the  shore  of  Argolis  there  stands 

A  temple  to  the  goddess  that  he  sought, 

That,  turned  unto  the  lion-bearing  lands, 

Fenced  from  the  east,  of  cold  winds  hath  no  thought, 

Though  to  no  homestead  there  the  sheaves  are  brought, 

No  groaning  press  torments  the  close-clipped  murk, 

Lonely  the  fane  stands,  far  from  all  men's  work. 

Pass  through  a  close,  set  thick  with  myrtle-trees, 
Through  the  brass  doors  that  guard  the  holy  place, 
And  entering,  hear  the  washing  of  the  seas 
That  twice  a-day  rise  high  above  the  base, 
And  with  the  south-west  urging  them,  embrace 
The  marble  feet  of  her  that  standeth  there 
That  shrink  not,  naked  though  they  be  and  fair. 

Small  is  the  fane  through  which  the  sea-wind  sings 
About  Queen  Venus'  well-wrought  image  white, 
But  hung  around  are  many  precious  things, 
The  gifts  of  those  who,  longing  for  delight, 
Have  hung  them  there  within  the  goddess'  sight, 
And  in  return  have  taken  at  her  hands 
The  living  treasures  of  the  Grecian  lands. 


132  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  thither  now  has  come  Milanion, 
And  showed  unto  the  priests'  wide-open  eyes 
Gifts  fairer  than  all  those  that  there  have  shone, 
Silk  cloths,  inwrought  with  Indian  fantasies, 
And  bowls  inscribed  with  sayings  of  the  wise 
Above  the  deeds  of  foolish  living  things, 
And  mirrors  fit  to  be  the  gifts  of  kings. 

And  now  before  the  Sea-born  One  he  stands, 
By  the  sweet  veiling  smoke  made  dim  and  soft, 
And  while  the  incense  trickles  from  his  hands, 
And  while  the  odorous  smoke-wreaths  hang  aloft, 
Thus  doth  he  pray  to  her :  "  0  Thou,  who  oft 
Hast  holpen  man  and  maid  in  their  distress, 
Despise  me  not  for  this  my  wretchedness ! 

"0  goddess,  among  us  who  dwell  below, 
Kings  and  great  men,  great  for  a  little  while, 
Have  pity  on  the  lowly  heads  that  bow, 
Nor  hate  the  hearts  that  love  them  without  guile  j 
Wilt  thou  be  worse  than  these,  and  is  thy  smile 
A  vain  device  of  him  who  set  thee  here, 
An  empty  dream  of  some  artificer  ? 

"  0  great  one,  some  men  love,  and  are  ashamed ; 
Some  men  are  weary  of  the  bonds  of  love ; 
Yea,  and  by  some  men  lightly  art  thou  blamed, 
That  from  thy  toils  their  lives  they  cannot  move, 
And  'mid  the  ranks  of  men  their  manhood  prove. 
Alas !  0  goddess,  if  thou  slayest  me 
What  new  immortal  can  I  serve  but  thee  ? 

"  Think  then,  will  it  bring  honour  to  thy  head 
If  folk  say,  '  Everything  aside  he  cast 
And  to  all  fame  and  honour  was  he  dead, 
And  to  his  one  hope  now  is  dead  at  last, 
Since  all  unholpen  he  is  gone  and  past : 
Ah,  the  gods  love  not  man,  for  certainly, 
He  to  his  helper  did  not  cease  to  cry.' 

"Nay,  but  thou  wilt  help;  they  who  died  before 
Not  single-hearted  as  I  deem  came  here, 


ATALANTA'S  RACE  133 

Therefore  unthanked  they  laid  their  gifts  before 
Thy  stainless  feet,  still  shivering  with  their  fear, 
Lest  in  their  eyes  their  true  thought  might  appear, 
Who  sought  to  be  the  lords  of  that  fair  town, 
Dreaded  of  men  and  winners  of  renown. 

"  0  Queen,  thou  knowest  I  pray  not  for  this : 
0  set  us  down  together  in  some  place 
Where  not  a  voice  can  break  our  heaven  of  bliss, 
Where  nought  but  rocks  and  I  can  see  her  face, 
Softening  beneath  the  marvel  of  thy  grace, 
Where  not  a  foot  our  vanished  steps  can  track  — 
The  golden  age,  the  golden  age  come  back ! 

"  0  fairest,  hear  me  now  who  do  thy  will, 
Plead  for  thy  rebel  that  she  be  not  slain, 
But  live  and  love  and  be  thy  servant  still ; 
Ah,  give  her  joy  and  take  away  my  pain, 
And  thus  two  long-enduring  servants  gain. 
An  easy  thing  this  is  to  do  for  me, 
What  need  of  my  vain  words  to  weary  thee ! 

"  But  none  the  less,  this  place  will  I  not  leave 
Until  I  needs  must  go  my  death  to  meet, 
Or  at  thy  hands  some  happy  sign  receive 
That  in  great  joy  we  twain  may  one  day  greet 
Thy  presence  here  and  kiss  thy  silver  feet, 
Such  as  we  deem  thee,  fair  beyond  all  words, 
Victorious  o'er  our  servants  and  our  lords." 

Then  from  the  altar  back  a  space  he  drew, 
But  from  the  Queen  turned  not  his  face  away, 
But  'gainst  a  pillar  leaned,  until  the  blue 
That  arched  the  sky,  at  ending  of  the  day, 
Was  turned  to  ruddy  gold  and  changing  grey, 
And  clear,  but  low,  the  nigh-ebbed  windless  sea 
In  the  still  evening  murmured  ceaselessly. 

And  there  he  stood  when  all  the  sun  was  down, 
Nor  had  he  moved,  when  the  dim  golden  light, 
Like  the  far  lustre  of  a  godlike  town, 
Had  left  the  world  to  seeming  hopeless  night, 
Nor  would  he  move  the  more  when  wan  moonlight 


134  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Streamed  through  the  pillars  for  a  little  while, 
And  lighted  up  the  white  Queen's  changeless  smile. 

Nought  noted  he  the  shallow-flowing  sea 
As  step  by  step  it  set  the  wrack  a-swim, 
The  yellow  torchlight  nothing  noted  he 
Wherein  with  fluttering  gown  and  half-bared  limb 
The  temple  damsels  sung  their  midnight  hymn ; 
And  nought  the  doubled  stillness  of  the  fane 
When  they  were  gone  and  all  was  hushed  again. 

But  when  the  waves  had  touched  the  marble  base, 
And  steps  the  fish  swim  over  twice  a-day, 
The  dawn  beheld  him  sunken  in  his  place 
Upon  the  floor ;  and  sleeping  there  he  lay, 
Not  heeding  aught  the  little  jets  of  spray 
The  roughened  sea  brought  nigh,  across  him  cast, 
For  as  one  dead  all  thought  from  him  had  passed. 

Yet  long  before  the  sun  had  shown  his  head, 
Long  ere  the  varied  hangings  on  the  wall 
Had  gained  once  more  their  blue  and  green  and  red, 
He  rose  as  one  some  well-known  sign  doth  call 
When  war  upon  the  city's  gates  doth  fall, 
And  scarce  like  one  fresh  risen  out  of  sleep, 
He  'gan  again  his  broken  watch  to  keep. 

Then  he  turned  round ;  not  for  the  sea-gull's  cry 
That  wheeled  about  the  temple  in  his  flight, 
Not  for  the  fresh  south  wind  that  lovingly 
Breathed  on  the  new-born  day  and  dying  night, 
But  some  strange  hope  'twixt  fear  and  great  delight 
Drew  round  his  face,  now  flushed,  now  pale  and  wan, 
And  still  constrained  his  eyes  the  sea  to  scan. 

Now  a  faint  light  lit  up  the  southern  sky, 
Not  sun  or  moon,  for  all  the  world  was  grey, 
But  this  a  bright  cloud  seemed,  that  drew  anigh, 
Lighting  the  dull  waves  that  beneath  it  lay 
As  toward  the  temple  still  it  took  its  way, 
And  still  grew  greater,  till  Milanion 
Saw  nought  but  dazzling  light  that  round  him  shone. 


ATALANTA'S  RACE.  135 

But  as  he  staggered  with  his  arms  outspread, 
Delicious  unnamed  odours  breathed  around, 
For  languid  happiness  he  bowed  his  head, 
And  with  wet  eyes  sank  down  upon  the  ground, 
Nor  wished  for  aught,  nor  any  dream  he  found 
To  give  him  reason  for  that  happiness, 
Or  make  him  ask  more  knowledge  of  his  bliss. 

At  last  his  eyes  were  cleared,  and  he  could  see 
Through  happy  tears  the  goddess  face  to  face 
With  that  faint  image  of  Divinity, 
Whose  well-wrought  smile  and  dainty  changeless  grace 
Until  that  morn  so  gladdened  all  the  place ; 
Then  he,  unwitting,  cried  aloud  her  name 
And  covered  up  his  eyes  for  fear  and  shame. 

But  through  the  stillness  he  her  voice  could  hear 
Piercing  his  heart  with  joy  scarce  bearable, 
That  said,  "  Milanion,  wherefore  dost  thou  fear, 
I  am  not  hard  to  those  who  love  me  well ; 
List  to  what  I  a  second  time  will  tell, 
And  thou  mayest  hear  perchance,  and  live  to  save 
The  cruel  maiden  from  a  loveless  grave. 

"  See,  by  my  feet  three  golden  apples  lie  — 
Such  fruit  among  the  heavy  roses  falls, 
Such  fruit  my  watchful  damsels  carefully 
Store  up  within  the  best  loved  of  my  walls, 
Ancient  Damascus,  where  the  lover  calls 
Above  my  unseen  head,  and  faint  and  light 
The  rose-leaves  flutter  round  me  in  the  night. 

"  And  note,  that  these  are  not  alone  most  fair 
With  heavenly  gold,  but  longing  strange  they  bring 
Unto  the  hearts  of  men,  who  will  not  care 
Beholding  these,  for  any  once-loved  thing 
Till  round  the  shining  sides  their  fingers  cling. 
And  thou  shalt  see  thy  well-girt  swiftfoot  maid 
By  sight  of  these  amidst  her  glory  stayed. 

"  For  bearing  these  within  a  scrip  with  thee, 
When  first  she  heads  thee  from  the  starting-place 


136  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Cast  down  the  first  one  for  her  eyes  to  see, 
And  when  she  turns  aside  make  on  apace, 
And  if  again  she  heads  thee  in  the  race 
Spare  not  the  other  two  to  cast  aside 
If  she  not  long  enough  behind  will  bide. 

"  Farewell,  and  when  has  come  the  happy  time 
That  she  Diana's  raiment  must  unbind 
And  all  the  world  seems  blessed  with  Saturn's  clime, 
And  thou  with  eager  arms  about  her  twined 
Beholdest  first  her  grey  eyes  growing  kind, 
Surely,  0  trembler,  thou  shalt  scarcely  then 
Forget  the  Helper  of  unhappy  men." 

Milanion  raised  his  head  at  this  last  word 
For  now  so  soft  and  kind  she  seemed  to  be 
No  longer  of  her  Godhead  was  he  feared ; 
Too  late  he  looked ;  for  nothing  could  he  see 
But  the  white  image  glimmering  doubtfully 
In  the  departing  twilight  cold  and  grey, 
And  those  three  apples  on  the  steps  that  lay. 

These  then  he  caught  up  quivering  with  delight, 
Yet  fearful  lest  it  all  might  be  a  dream ; 
And  though  aweary  with  the  watchful  night, 
And  sleepless  nights  of  longing,  still  did  deem 
He  could  not  sleep ;  but  yet  the  first  sunbeam 
That  smote  the  fane  across  the  heaving  deep 
Shone  on  him  laid  in  calm  untroubled  sleep. 

But  little  ere  the  noontide  did  he  rise, 
And  why  he  felt  so  happy  scarce  could  tell 
Until  the  gleaming  apples  met  his  eyes. 
Then  leaving  the  fair  place  where  this  befell 
Oft  he  looked  back  as  one  who  loved  it  well, 
Then  homeward  to  the  haunts  of  men  'gan  wend 
To  bring  all  things  unto  a  happy  end. 


Now  has  the  lingering  month  at  last  gone  by, 
Again  are  all  folk  round  the  running  place, 
Nor  other  seems  the  dismal  pageantry 
Than  heretofore,  but  that  another  face 
Looks  o'er  the  smooth  course  ready  for  the  race, 


ATALANTA'S  RACE.  137 

For  now,  beheld  of  all,  Milanion 

Stands  on  the  spot  he  twice  has  looked  upon. 

But  yet  —  what  change  is  this  that  holds  the  maid  ? 
Does  she  indeed  see  in  his  glittering  eye 
More  than  disdain  of  the  sharp  shearing  blade, 
Some  happy  hope  of  help  and  victory  ? 
The  others  seemed  to  say,  "  We  come  to  die, 
Look  down  upon  us  for  a  little  while, 
That  dead,  we  may  bethink  us  of  thy  smile." 

But  he  —  what  look  of  mastery  was  this 
He  cast  on  her  ?  why  were  his  lips  so  red  ? 
Why  was  his  face  so  flushed  with  happiness  ? 
So  looks  not  one  who  deems  himself  but  dead, 
E'en  if  to  death  he  bows  a  willing  head ; 
So  rather  looks  a  god  well  pleased  to  find 
Some  earthly  damsel  fashioned  to  his  mind. 

Why  must  she  drop  her  lids  before  his  gaze, 
And  even  as  she  casts  adown  her  eyes 
Eedden  to  note  his  eager  glance  of  praise, 
And  wish  that  she  were  clad  in  other  guise  ? 
Why  must  the  memory  to  her  heart  arise 
Of  things  unnoticed  when  they  first  were  heard, 
Some  lover's  song,  some  answering  maiden's  word  ? 

What  makes  these  longings,  vague,  without  a  name, 
And  this  vain  pity  never  felt  before, 
This  sudden  languor,  this  contempt  of  fame, 
This  tender  sorrow  for  the  time  past  o'er, 
These  doubts  that  grow  each  minute  more  and  more  ? 
Why  does  she  tremble  as  the  time  grows  near, 
And  weak  defeat  and  woeful  victory  fear  ? 

Now  while  she  seemed  to  hear  her  beating  heart, 
Above  their  heads  the  trumpet  blast  rang  out 
And  forth  they  sprang ;  and  she  must  play  her  part. 
Then  flew  her  white  feet,  knowing  not  a  doubt, 
Though  slackening  once,  she  turned  her  head  about, 
But  then  she  cried  aloud  and  faster  fled 
Than  e'er  before,  and  all  men  deemed  him  dead. 


138  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

But  with  no  sound  he  raised  aloft  his  hand, 
And  thence  what  seemed  a  ray  of  light  there  flew 
And  past  the  maid  rolled  on  along  the  sand ; 
Then  trembling  she  her  feet  together  drew 
And  in  her  heart  a  strong  desire  there  grew 
To  have  the  toy ;  some  god  she  thought  had  given 
That  gift  to  her,  to  make  of  earth  a  heaven. 

Then  from  the  course  with  eager  steps  she  ran, 
And  in  her  odorous  bosom  laid  the  gold. 
But  when  she  turned  again,  the  great-limbed  man, 
Now  well  ahead  she  failed  not  to  behold, 
And  mindful  of  her  glory  waxing  cold, 
Sprang  up  and  followed  him  in  hot  pursuit, 
Though  with  one  hand  she  touched  the  golden  fruit. 

Note  too,  the  bow  that  she  was  wont  to  bear 
She  laid  aside  to  grasp  the  glittering  prize, 
And  o'er  her  shoulder  from  the  quiver  fair 
Three  arrows  fell  and  lay  before  her  eyes 
Unnoticed,  as  amidst  the  people's  cries 
She  sprang  to  head  the  strong  Milanion, 
Who  now  the  turning-post  had  well-nigh  won. 

But  as  he  set  his  mighty  hand  on  it 
White  ringers  underneath  his  own  were  laid, 
And  white  limbs  from  his  dazzled  eyes  did  flit, 
Then  he  the  second  fruit  cast  by  the  maid, 
She  ran  awhile,  and  then  as  one  afraid 
Wavered  and  stopped,  and  turned  and  made  no  stay, 
Until  the  globe  with  its  bright  fellow  lay. 

Then,  as  a  troubled  glance  she  cast  around 
Now  far  ahead  the  Argive  could  she  see, 
And  in  her  garment's  hem  one  hand  she  wound 
To  keep  the  double  prize,  and  strenuously 
Sped  o'er  the  course,  and  little  doubt  had  she 
To  win  the  day,  though  now  but  scanty  space 
Was  left  betwixt  him  and  the  winning  place. 

Short  was  the  way  unto  such  winged  feet, 
Quickly  she  gained  upon  him  till  at  last 
He  turned  about  her  eager  eyes  to  meet 
And  from  his  hand  the  third  fair  apple  cast. 


ATALANTA'S  RACE.  139 

She  wavered  not,  but  turned  and  ran  so  fast 
After  the  prize  that  should  her  bliss  fulfil, 
That  in  her  hand  it  lay  ere  it  was  still. 

Nor  did  she  rest,  but  turned  about  to  win 
Once  more,  an  unblest  woeful  victory  — 
And  yet  —  and  yet  —  why  does  her  breath  begin 
To  fail  her,  and  her  feet  drag  heavily  ? 
Why  fails  she  now  to  see  if  far  or  nigh 
The  goal  is  ?  why  do  her  grey  eyes  grow  dim  ? 
Why  do  these  tremors  run  through  every  limb  ? 

She  spreads  her  arms  abroad  some  stay  to  find, 
Else  must  she  fall,  indeed,  and  findeth  this, 
A  strong  man's  arms  about  her  body  twined. 
Nor  may  she  shudder  now  to  feel  his  kiss, 
So  wrapped  she  is  in  new  unbroken  bliss  : 
Made  happy  that  the  foe  the  prize  hath  won, 
She  weeps  glad  tears  for  all  her  glory  done. 

Shatter  the  trumpet,  hew  adown  the  posts ! 
Upon  the  brazen  altar  break  the  sword, 
And  scatter  incense  to  appease  the  ghosts 
Of  those  who  died  here  by  their  own  award. 
Bring  forth  the  image  of  the  mighty  Lord, 
And  her  who  unseen  o'er  the  runners  hung, 
And  did  a  deed  for  ever  to  be  sung. 

Here  are  the  gathered  folk ;  make  no  delay, 
Open  King  Schceneus'  well-filled  treasury, 
Bring  out  the  gifts  long  hid  from  light  of  day, 
The  golden  bowls  o'erwrought  with  imagery, 
Gold  chains,  and  unguents  brought  from  over  sea, 
The  saffron  gown  the  old  Phoenician  brought, 
Within  the  temple  of  the  Goddess  wrought. 

0  ye,  0  damsels,  who  shall  never  see 
Her,  that  Love's  servant  bringeth  now  to  you, 
Returning  from  another  victory, 
In  some  cool  bower  do  all  that  now  is  due ! 
Since  she  in  token  of  her  service  new 
Shall  give  to  Venus  offerings  rich  enow, 
Her  maiden  zone,  her  arrows,  and  her  bow. 


140  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

OGIER  THE  DANE.28 

ARGUMENT. 

When  Ogier  was  born,  six  fay  ladies  came  to  the  cradle  where 
he  lay,  and  gave  him  various  gifts,  as  to  be  brave  and  happy  and 
the  like ;  but  the  sixth  gave  him  to  be  her  love  when  he  should 
have  lived  long  in  the  world :  so  Ogier  grew  up  and  became  the 
greatest  of  knights,  and  at  last,  after  many  years,  fell  into  the 
hands  of  that  fay,  and  with  her,  as  the  story  tells,  he  lives  now, 
though  he  returned  once  to  the  world,  as  is  shown  in  the  process 
of  this  tale. 

WITHIN  some  Danish  city  by  the  sea, 
Whose  name,  changed  now,  is  all  unknown  to  me, 
Great  mourning  was  there  one  fair  summer  eve, 
Because  the  angels,  bidden  to  receive 
The  fair  Queen's  lovely  soul  in  Paradise, 
Had  done  their  bidding,  and  in  royal  guise 
Her  helpless  body,  once  the  prize  of  love, 
Unable  now  for  fear  or  hope  to  move, 
Lay  underneath  the  golden  canopy ; 
And  bowed  down  by  unkingly  misery 
The  King  sat  by  it,  and  not  far  away, 
Within  the  chamber  a  fair  man-child  lay, 
His  mother's  bane,  the  king  that  was  to  be, 
Not  witting  yet  of  any  royalty, 
Harmless  and  loved,  although  so  new  to  life. 

Calm  the  June  evening  was,  no  sign  of  strife 
The  clear  sky  showed;  no  storm  grew  round  the  sun, 
Unhappy  that  his  day  of  bliss  was  done ; 
Dumb  was  the  sea,  and  if  the  beech-wood  stirred, 
'Twas  with  the  nestling  of  the  grey-winged  bird 
Midst  its  thick  leaves ;  and  though  the  nightingale 
Her  ancient,  hapless  sorrow  must  bewail, 
No  more  of  woe  there  seemed  within  her  song 
Than  such  as  doth  to  lovers'  words  belong, 
Because  their  love  is  still  unsatisfied. 

But  to  the  King,  on  that  sweet  eventide, 
No  earth  there  seemed,  no  heaven  when  earth  was  gone ; 
No  help,  no  God !  but  lonely  pain  alone ; 


OGIER   THE  DANE.  141 

And  he,  midst  unreal  shadows,  seemed  to  sit 
Himself  the  very  heart  and  soul  of  it. 
But  round  the  cradle  of  the  new-born  child 
The  nurses  now  the  weary  time  beguiled 
With  stories  of  the  just  departed  Queen ; 
And  how,  amid  the  heathen  folk  first  seen, 
She  had  been  won  to  love  and  godliness  ; 
And  as  they  spoke,  e'en  midst  his  dull  distress, 
An  eager  whisper  now  and  then  did  smite 
Upon  the  King's  ear,  of  some  past  delight, 
Some  once  familiar  name,  and  he  would  raise 
His  weary  head,  and  on  the  speaker  gaze 
Like  one  about  to  speak,  but  soon  again 
Would  drop  his  head  and  be  alone  with  pain, 
Nor  think  of  these,  who,  silent  in  their  turn, 
Would  sit  and  watch  the  waxen  tapers  burn 
Amidst  the  dusk  of  the  quick-gathering  night, 
Until  beneath  the  high  stars'  glimmering  light, 
The  fresh  earth  lay  in  colourless  repose. 

So  passed  the  night,  and  now  and  then  one  rose 
From  out  her  place  to  do  what  might  avail 
To  still  the  new-born  infant's  fretful  wail ; 
Or  through  the  softly-opened  door  there  came 
Some  nurse  new  waked,  who,  whispering  low  the  name 
Of  her  whose  turn  was  come,  would  take  her  place ; 
Then  toward  the  King  would  turn  about  her  face 
And  to  her  fellows  whisper  of  the  day, 
And  tell  again  of  her  just  passed  away. 

So  passed  the  night,  the  moon  arose  and  grew, 
From  off  the  sea  a  little  west-wind  blew, 
Rustling  the  garden-leaves  like  sudden  rain; 
And  ere  the  moon  began  to  fall  again 
The  wind  grew  cold,  a  change  was  in  the  sky, 
And  in  deep  silence  did  the  dawn  draw  nigh : 
Then  from  her  place  a  nurse  arose  to  light 
Fresh  hallowed  lights,  for,  dying  with  the  night, 
The  tapers  round  about  the  dead  Queen  were ; 
But  the  King  raised  his  head  and  'gan  to  stare 
Upon  her,  as  her  sweeping  gown  did  glide 
About  the  floor,  that  in  the  stillness  cried 
Beneath  her  careful  feet ;  and  now  as  she 
Had  lit  the  second  candle  carefully, 


142  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  on  its  silver  spike  another  one 
Was  setting,  through  her  body  did  there  run 
A  sudden  tremor,  and  the  hand  was  stayed 
That  on  the  dainty  painted  wax  was  laid; 
Her  eyelids  fell  down,  and  she  seemed  to  sleep, 
And  o'er  the  staring  King  began  to  creep 
Sweet  slumber  too;  the  bitter  lines  of  woe 
That  drew  his  weary  face  did  softer  grow, 
His  eyelids  dropped,  his  arms  fell  to  his  side ; 
And  moveless  in  their  places  did  abide 
The  nursing  women,  held  by  some  strong  spell, 
E'en  as  they  were,  and  utter  silence  fell 
Upon  the  mournful,  glimmering  chamber  fair. 

But  now  light  footsteps  coming  up  the  stair, 
Smote  on  the  deadly  stillness,  and  the  sound 
Of  silken  dresses  trailing  o'er  the  ground ; 
And  heavenly  odours  through  the  chamber  passed, 
Unlike  the  scents  that  rose  and  lily  cast 
Upon  the  freshness  of  the  dying  night ; 
Then  nigher  drew  the  sound  of  footsteps  light 
Until  the  door  swung  open  noiselessly  — 
A  mass  of  sunlit  flowers  there  seemed  to  be 
Within  the  doorway ;  and  but  pale  and  wan 
The  flame  showed  now  that  serveth  mortal  man, 
As  one  by  one  six  seeming  ladies  passed 
Into  the  room,  and  o'er  its  sorrow  cast 
That  thoughtless  sense  of  joy  bewildering, 
That  kisses  youthful  hearts  amidst  of  spring ; 
Crowned  were  they,  in  such  glorious  raiment  clad, 
As  yet  no  merchant  of  the  world  has  had 
Within  his  coffers ;  yet  those  crowns  seemed  fair 
Only  because  they  kissed  their  odorous  hair, 
And  all  that  flowery  raiment  was  but  blessed 
By  those  fair  bodies  that  its  splendour  pressed. 

Now  to  the  cradle  from  that  glorious  band, 
A  woman  passed,  and  laid  a  tender  hand 
Upon  the  babe,  and  gently  drew  aside 
The  swathings  soft  that  did  his  body  hide ; 
And,  seeing  him  so  fair  and  great,  she  smiled, 
And  stooped,  and  kissed  him,  saying,  "  0  noble  child, 
Have  thou  a  gift  from  Gloriande  this  day  ; 
For  to  the  time  when  life  shall  pass  away 
From  this  dear  heart,  no  fear  of  death  or  shame, 


OGIER    THE  DANE.  143 

No  weariness  of  good  shall  foul  thy  name." 

So  saying,  to  her  sisters  she  returned ; 
And  one  came  forth,  upon  whose  brow  there  burned 
A  crown  of  rubies,  and  whose  heaving  breast 
With  happy  rings  a  golden  hauberk  pressed ; 
She  took  the  babe,  and  somewhat  frowning  said, 
"  This  gift  I  give,  that  till  thy  limbs  are  laid 
At  rest  for  ever,  to  thine  honoured  life 
There  never  shall  be  lacking  war  and  strife, 
That  thou  a  long-enduring  name  mayst  win, 
And  by  thy  deeds,  good  pardon  for  thy  sin." 

With  that  another,  who,  unseen,  meanwhile 
Had  drawn  anigh,  said  with  a  joyous  smile, 
"  And  this  forgotten  gift  to  thee  I  give, 
That  while  amidst  the  turmoil  thou  dost  live, 
Still  shalt  thou  win  the  game,  and  unto  thee 
Defeat  and  shame  but  idle  words  shall  be." 

Then  back  they  turned,  and  therewithal,  the  fourth 
Said,  "  Take  this  gift  for  what  it  may  be  worth. 
For  that  is  mine  to  give ;  lo,  thou  shalt  be 
Gentle  of  speech,  and  in  all  courtesy 
The  first  of  men :  a  little  gift  this  is, 
After  these  promises  of  fame  and  bliss." 

Then  toward  the  babe  the  fifth  fair  woman  went ; 
Grey-eyed  she  was,  and  simple,  with  eyes  bent 
Down  on  the  floor ;  parted  her  red  lips  were, 
And  o'er  her  sweet  face  marvellously  fair 
Oft  would  the  colour  spread  full  suddenly ; 
Clad  in  a  dainty  gown  and  thin  was  she, 
For  some  green  summer  of  the  fay-land  dight ; 
Tripping  she  went,  and  laid  her  fingers  light 
Upon  the  child,  and  said,  "  0  little  one, 
As  long  as  thou  shalt  look  upon  the  sun 
Shall  women  long  for  thee ;  take  heed  to  this 
And  give  them  what  thou  canst  of  love  and  bliss." 
Then,  blushing  for  her  words,  therefrom  she  past, 
And  by  the  cradle  stood  the  sixth  and  last, 
The  fairest  of  them  all ;  awhile  she  gazed 
Down  on  the  child,  and  then  her  hand  she  raised, 
And  made  the  one  side  of  her  bosom  bare ; 
"  Ogier,"  she  said,  "  if  this  be  foul  or  fair 
Thou  know'st  not  now,  but  when  thine  earthly  life 
Is  drunk  out  to  the  dregs,  and  war  and  strife 


144  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Have  yielded  thee  whatever  joy  they  may, 
Thine  head  upon  this  bosom  shalt  thou  lay ; 
And  then,  despite  of  knowledge  or  of  God, 
Will  we  be  glad  upon  the  flowery  sod 
Within  the  happy  country  where  I  dwell : 
Ogier,  my  love  that  is  to  be,  farewell !  " 

She  turned,  and  even  as  they  came  they  passed 
From  out  the  place,  and  reached  the  gate  at  last 
That  oped  before  their  feet,  and  speedily 
They  gained  the  edges  of  the  murmuring  sea, 
And  as  they  stood  in  silence,  gazing  there 
Out  to  the  west,  they  vanished  into  air, 
I  know  not  how,  nor  whereto  they  returned. 

But  mixed  with  twilight  in  the  chamber  burned 
The  flickering  candles,  and  those  dreary  folk, 
Unlike  to  sleepers,  from  their  trance  awoke, 
But  nought  of  what  had  happed  meanwhile  they  knew. 
Through  the  half-opened  casements  now  there  blew 
A  sweet  fresh  air,  that  of  the  flowers  and  sea 
Mingled  together,  smelt  deliciously, 
And  from  the  unseen  sun  the  spreading  light 
Began  to  make  the  fair  June  blossoms  bright, 
And  midst  their  weary  woe  uprose  the  sun, 
And  thus  has  Ogier's  noble  life  begun. 

Hope  is  our  life,  when  first  our  life  grows  clear ; 
Hope  and  delight,  scarce  crossed  by  lines  of  fear ; 
Yet  the  day  comes  when  fain  we  would  not  hope, 
But  forasmuch  as  we  with  life  must  cope, 
Struggling  with  this  and  that,  who  knoweth  why  ? 
Hope  will  not  give  us  up  to  certainty, 
But  still  must  bide  with  us :  and  with  this  man, 
Whose  life  amid  such  promises  began 
Great  things  she  wrought ;  but  now  the  time  has  come 
When  he  no  more  on  earth  may  have  his  home. 

Great  things  he  suffered,  great  delights  he  had, 
Unto  great  kings  he  gave  good  deeds  for  bad ; 
He  ruled  o'er  kingdoms  where  his  name  no  more 
Is  had  in  memory,  and  on  many  a  shore 
He  left  his  sweat  and  blood  to  win  a  name 
Passing  the  bounds  of  earthly  creatures'  fame. 


OGIER   THE  DANE.  145 

A  love  he  won  and  lost,  a  well-loved  son 
Whose  little  day  of  promise  soon  was  done : 
A  tender  wife  he  had,  that  he  must  leave 
Before  his  heart  her  love  could  well  receive ; 
Those  promised  gifts,  that  on  his  careless  head 
In  those  first  hours  of  his  fair  life  were  shed 
He  took  unwitting,  and  unwitting  spent, 
Nor  gave  himself  to  grief  and  discontent 
Because  he  saw  the  end  a-drawing  nigh. 

Where  is  he  now  ?  in  what  land  must  he  die, 
To  leave  an  empty  name  to  us  on  earth  ? 
A  tale  half  true,  to  cast  across  our  mirth 
Some  pensive  thoughts  of  life  that  might  have  been ; 
Where  is  he  now,  that  all  this  life  has  seen  ? 

Behold,  another  eve  upon  the  earth 
Than  that  calm  evening  of  the  warrior's  birth ! 
The  sun  is  setting  in  the  west,  the  sky 
Is  clear  and  hard,  and  no  clouds  come  anigh 
The  golden  orb,  but  farther  off  they  lie, 
Steel-grey  and  black  with  edges  red  as  blood, 
And  underneath  them  is  the  weltering  flood 
Of  some  huge  sea,  whose  tumbling  hills,  as  they 
Turn  restless  sides  about,  are  black  or  grey, 
Or  green,  or  glittering  with  the  golden  flame ; 
The  wind  has  fallen  now,  but  still  the  same 
The  mighty  army  moves,  as  if  to  drown 
This  lone,  bare  rock,  whose  shear  scarped  sides  of  brown 
Cast  off  the  weight  of  waves  in  clouds  of  spray. 

Alas  !  what  ships  upon  an  evil  day 
Bent  over  to  the  wind  in  this  ill  sea  ? 
What  navy,  whose  rent  bones  lie  wretchedly 
Beneath  these  cliffs  ?  a  mighty  one  it  was, 
A  fearful  storm  to  bring  such  things  to  pass. 

This  is  the  loadstone  rock ;  no  armament 
Of  warring  nations,  in  their  madness  bent 
Their  course  this  way ;  no  merchant  wittingly 
Has  steered  his  keel  unto  this  luckless  sea ; 
Upon  no  shipman's  card  its  name  is  writ, 
Though  worn-out  mariners  will  speak  of  it 
Within  the  ingle  on  the  winter's  night, 
When  all  within  is  warm  and  safe  and  bright, 


146  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  the  wind  howls  without :  but  'gainst  their  will 

Are  some  folk  driven  here,  and  then  all  skill 

Against  this  evil  rock  is  vain  and  nought, 

And  unto  death  the  shipmen  soon  are  brought ; 

For  then  the  keel,  as  by  a  giant's  hand, 

Is  drawn  unto  that  mockery  of  a  land, 

And  presently  unto  its  sides  doth  cleave ; 

When  if  they  'scape  swift  death,  yet  none  may  leave 

The  narrow  limits  of  that  barren  isle, 

And  thus  are  slain  by  famine  in  a  while, 

Mocked,  as  they  say,  by  night  with  images 

Of  noble  castles  among  groves  of  trees, 

By  day  with  sounds  of  merry  minstrelsy. 

The  sun  sinks  now  below  this  hopeless  sea, 
The  clouds  are  gone,  and  all  the  sky  is  bright ; 
The  moon  is  rising  o'er  the  growing  night, 
And  by  its  shine  may  ye  behold  the  bones 
Of  generations  of  these  luckless  ones 
Scattered  about  the  rock ;  but  nigh  the  sea 
Sits  one  alive,  who  uncomplainingly 
Awaits  his  death.     White-haired  is  he  and  old, 
Arrayed  in  royal  raiment,  bright  with  gold, 
But  tarnished  with  the  waves  and  rough  salt  air ; 
Huge  is  he,  of  a  noble  face  and  fair, 
As  for  an  ancient  man,  though  toil  and  eld 
Furrow  the  cheeks  that  ladies  once  beheld 
With  melting  hearts  —  Nay,  listen,  for  he  speaks ! 

"  God,  Thou  hast  made  me  strong !  nigh  seven  weeks 
Have  passed  since  from  the  wreck  we  haled  our  store, 
And  five  long  days  well  told,  have  now  passed  o'er 
Since  my  last  fellow  died,  with  my  last  bread 
Between  his  teeth,  and  yet  I  am  not  dead. 
Yea,  but  for  this  I  had  been  strong  enow 
In  some  last  bloody  field  my  sword  to  show. 
What  matter  ?  soon  will  all  be  past  and  done, 
Where'er  I  died  I  must  have  died  alone : 
Yet,  Caraheu,  a  good  death  had  it  been 
Dying,  thy  face  above  me  to  have  seen, 
And  heard  my  banner  flapping  in  the  wind, 
Then,  though  my  memory  had  not  left  thy  mind, 
Yet  hope  and  fear  would  not  have  vexed  thee  more 
When  thou  hadst  known  that  everything  was  o'er ; 


OGIER    THE  DANE.  147 

But  now  thou  waitest,  still  expecting  me, 
Whose  sail  shall  never  speck  thy  bright  blue  sea. 

"  And  thou,  Clarice,  the  merchants  thou  mayst  call, 
To  tell  thee  tales  within  thy  pictured  hall, 
But  never  shall  they  tell  true  tales  of  me : 
Whatever  sails  the  Kentish  hills  may  see 
Swept  by  the  flood-tide  toward  thy  well-walled  town, 
No  more  on  my  sails  shall  they  look  adown. 

"  Get  thee  another  leader,  Charlemaine, 
For  thou  shalt  look  to  see  my  shield  in  vain, 
When  in  the  fair  fields  of  the  Prankish  land, 
Thick  as  the  corn  they  tread,  the  heathen  stand. 

"  What  matter  ?  ye  shall  learn  to  live  your  lives ; 
Husbands  and  children,  other  friends  and  wives, 
Shall  wipe  the  tablets  of  your  memory  clean, 
And  all  shall  be  as  I  had  never  been. 


"And  now,  0  God,  am  I  alone  with  Thee; 
A  little  thing  indeed  it  seems  to  be 
To  give  this  life  up,  since  it  needs  must  go 
Some  time  or  other ;  now  at  last  I  know 
How  foolishly  men  play  upon  the  earth, 
When  unto  them  a  year  of  life  seems  worth 
Honour  and  friends,  and  these  vague  hopes  and  sweet 
That  like  real  things  my  dying  heart  do  greet, 
Unreal  while  living  on  the  earth  I  trod, 
And  but  myself  I  knew  no  other  god. 
Behold,  I  thank  Thee  that  Thou  sweet'nest  thus 
This  end,  that  I  had  thought  most  piteous, 
If  of  another  I  had  heard  it  told." 


What  man  is  this,  who,  weak  and  worn  and  old, 
Gives  up  his  life  within  that  dreadful  isle, 
And  on  the  fearful  coming  death  can  smile  ? 
Alas  !  this  man,  so  battered  and  outworn, 
Is  none  but  he,  who,  on  that  summer  morn, 
Eeceived  such  promises  of  glorious  life : 
Ogier  the  Dane  this  is,  to  whom  all  strife 
Was  but  as  wine  to  stir  awhile  the  blood, 
To  whom  all  life,  however  hard,  was  good  : 
This  is  the  man,  unmatched  of  heart  and  limb, 
Ogier  the  Dane,  whose  sight  has  waxed  not  dim 


148  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

For  all  the  years  that  he  on  earth  has  dwelt ; 
Ogier  the  Dane,  that  never  fear  has  felt, 
Since  he  knew  good  from  ill ;  Ogier  the  Dane, 
The  heathen's  dread,  the  evil-doer's  bane. 


Bright  had  the  moon  grown  as  his  words  were  done, 
And  no  more  was  there  memory  of  the  sun 
Within  the  west,  and  he  grew  drowsy  now, 
And  somewhat  smoother  was  his  wrinkled  brow 
As  thought  died  out  beneath  the  hand  of  sleep, 
And  o'er  his  soul  forgetfulness  did  creep, 
Hiding  the  image  of  swift-coming  death ; 
Until  as  peacefully  he  drew  his  breath 
As  on  that  day,  past  for  a  hundred  years, 
When,  midst  the  nurse's  quickly-falling  tears, 
He  fell  asleep  to  his  first  lullaby. 

The  night  changed  as  he  slept,  white  clouds  and  high 
Began  about  the  lonely  moon  to  close  ; 
And  from  the  dark  west  a  new  wind  arose, 
And  with  the  sound  of  heavy-falling  waves 
Mingled  its  pipe  about  the  loadstone  caves  ; 
But  when  the  twinkling  stars  were  hid  away, 
And  a  faint  light  and  broad,  like  dawn  of  day, 
The  moon  upon  that  dreary  country  shed, 
Ogier  awoke,  and  lifting  up  his  head 
And  smiling,  muttered,  "  Nay,  no  more  again ; 
Eather  some  pleasure  new,  some  other  pain, 
Unthought  of  both,  some  other  form  of  strife ; n 
For  he  had  waked  from  dreams  of  his  old  life, 
And  through  St.  Omer's  archer-guarded  gate 
Once  more  had  seemed  to  pass,  and  saw  the  state 
Of  that  triumphant  king ;  and  still,  though  all 
Seemed  changed,  and  folk  by  other  names  did  call 
Faces  he  knew  of  old,  yet  none  the  less 
He  seemed  the  same,  and,  midst  that  mightiness, 
Felt  his  own  power,  and  grew  the  more  athirst 
For  coming  glory,  as  of  old,  when  first 
He  stood  before  the  face  of  Charlemaine, 
A  helpless  hostage  with  all  life  to  gain. 

But  now,  awake,  his  worn  face  once  more  sank 
Between  his  hands,  and,  murmuring  not,  he  drank 
The  draught  of  death  that  must  that  thirst  allay. 


OGIER   THE  DANE.  149 

But  while  he  sat  and  waited  for  the  day 
A  sudden  light  across  the  bare  rock  streamed, 
Which  at  the  first  he  noted  not,  but  deemed 
The  moon  her  fleecy  veil  had  broken  through'; 
But  ruddier  indeed  this  new  light  grew 
Than  were  the  moon's  grey  beams,  and,  therewithal, 
Soft  far-off  music  on  his  ears  did  fall ; 
Yet  moved  he  not,  but  murmured,  "  This  is  death, 
An  easy  thing  like  this  to  yield  my  breath, 
Awake,  yet  dreaming,  with  no  sounds  of  fear, 
No  dreadful  sights  to  tell  me  it  is  near  ; 
Yea,  God,  I  thank  Thee !  "  but  with  that  last  word 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  his  own  name  heard 
Whispered,  as  though  the  wind  had  borne  it  past ; 
With  that  he  gat  unto  his  feet  at  last, 
But  still  awhile  he  stood,  with  sunken  head, 
And  in  a  low  and  trembling  voice  he  said, 
"  Lord,  I  am  ready,  whither  shall  I  go  ? 
I  pray  Thee  unto  me  some  token  show." 
And,  as  he  said  this,  round  about  he  turned, 
And  in  the  east  beheld  a  light  that  burned 
As  bright  as  day  ;  then,  though  his  flesh  might  fear 
The  coming  change  that  he  believed  so  near, 
Yet  did  his  soul  rejoice,  for  now  he  thought 
Unto  the  very  heaven  to  be  brought : 
And  though  he  felt  alive,  deemed  it  might  be 
That  he  in  sleep  had  died  full  easily. 

Then  toward  that  light  did  he  begin  to  go, 
And  still  those  strains  he  heard,  far  off  and  low, 
That  grew  no  louder ;  still  that  bright  light  streamed 
Over  the  rocks,  yet  nothing  brighter  seemed, 
But  like  the  light  of  some  unseen  bright  flame 
Shone  round  about,  until  at  last  he  came 
Unto  the  dreary  islet's  other  shore, 
And  then  the  minstrelsy  he  heard  no  more, 
And  softer  seemed  the  strange  light  unto  him ; 
But  yet,  or  ever  it  had  grown  quite  dim, 
Beneath  its  waning  light  could  he  behold 
A  mighty  palace  set  about  with  gold, 
Above  green  meads  and  groves  of  summer  trees 
Far-off  across  the  welter  of  the  seas ; 
But,  as  he  gazed,  it  faded  from  his  sight, 
And  the  grey  hidden  moon's  diffused  soft  light, 


150  THE   EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Which  soothly  was  but  darkness  to  him  now, 
His  sea-girt  island  prison  did  but  show. 

But  o'er  the  sea  he  still  gazed  wistfully, 
And  said,  "  Alas  !  and  when  will  this  go  by 
And  leave  my  soul  in  peace  ?  must  I  still  dream 
Of  life  that  once  so  dear  a  thing  did  seem, 
That,  when  I  wake,  death  may  the  bitterer  be  ? 
Here  will  I  sit  until  he  come  to  me, 
And  hide  mine  eyes  and  think  upon  my  sin, 
That  so  a  little  calm  I  yet  may  win 
Before  I  stand  within  the  awful  place." 

Then  down  he  sat  and  covered  up  his  face, 
Yet  therewithal  his  trouble  could  not  hide, 
Nor  waiting  thus  for  death  could  he  abide, 
For,  though  he  knew  it  not,  the  yearning  pain 
Of  hope  of  life  had  touched  his  soul  again  — 
If  he  could  live  awhile,  if  he  could  live  ! 
The  mighty  being,  who  once  was  wont  to  give 
The  gift  of  life  to  many  a  trembling  man ; 
Who  did  his  own  will  since  his  life  began ; 
Who  feared  not  aught,  but  strong  and  great  and  free 
Still  cast  aside  the  thought  of  what  might  be ; 
Must  all  this  then  be  lost,  and  with  no  will, 
Powerless  and  blind,  must  he  some  fate  fulfil, 
Nor  know  what  he  is  doing  any  more  ? 

Soon  he  arose  and  paced  along  the  shore, 
And  gazed  out  seaward  for  the  blessed  light ; 
But  nought  he  saw  except  the  old  sad  sight, 
The  ceaseless  tumbling  of  the  billows  grey, 
The  white  upspringing  of  the  spurts  of  spray 
Amidst  that  mass  of  timbers,  the  rent  bones 
Of  the  sea-houses  of  the  hapless  ones 
Once  cast  like  him  upon  this  deadly  isle. 

He  stopped  his  pacing  in  a  little  while, 
And  clenched  his  mighty  hands,  and  set  his  teeth, 
And  gazing  at  the  ruin  underneath, 
He  swung  from  off  the  bare  cliff's  jagged  brow, 
And  on  some  slippery  ledge  he  wavered  now, 
Without  a  hand-hold,  and  now  stoutly  clung 
With  hands  alone,  and  o'er  the  welter  hung, 
Not  caring  aught  if  thus  his  life  should  end ; 
But  safely  amidst  all  this  did  he  descend 


OGIER   THE  DANE.  151 

The  dreadful  cliff,  and  since  no  beach  was  there, 
But  from  the  depths  the  rock  rose  stark  and  bare, 
Nor  crumbled  aught  beneath  the  hammering  sea, 
Upon  the  wrecks  he  stood  unsteadily. 

But  now,  amid  the  clamour  of  the  waves, 
And  washing  to-and-fro  of  beams  and  staves, 
Dizzy  with  hunger,  dreamy  with  distress, 
And  all  those  days  of  fear  and  loneliness, 
The  ocean's  tumult  seemed  the  battle's  roar, 
His  heart  grew  hot,  as  when  in  days  of  yore 
He  heard  the  cymbals  clash  amid  the  crowd 
Of  dusky  faces  ;  now  he  shouted  loud, 
And  from  crushed  beam  to  beam  began  to  leap, 
And  yet  his  footing  somehow  did  he  keep 
Amidst  their  tossing,  and  indeed  the  sea 
Was  somewhat  sunk  upon  the  island's  lee. 
So  quickly  on  from  wreck  to  wreck  he  passed, 
And  reached  the  outer  line  of  wrecks  at  last, 
And  there  a  moment  stood  unsteadily, 
Amid  the  drift  of  spray  that  hurried  by, 
And  drew  Courtain  his  sword  from  out  its  sheath, 
And  poised  himself  to  meet  the  coming  death, 
Still  looking  out  to  sea ;  but  as  he  gazed, 
And  once  or  twice  his  doubtful  feet  he  raised 
To  take  the  final  plunge,  that  heavenly  strain 
Over  the  washing  waves  he  heard  again, 
And  from  the  dimness  something  bright  he  saw 
Across  the  waste  of  waters  towards  him  draw  j 
And  hidden  now,  now  raised  aloft,  at  last 
Unto  his  very  feet  a  boat  was  cast, 
Gilded  inside  and  out,  and  well  arrayed 
With  cushions  soft ;  far  fitter  to  have  weighed 
From  some  sweet  garden  on  the  shallow  Seine, 
Or  in  a  reach  of  green  Thames  to  have  lain, 
Than  struggle  with  that  huge  confused  sea ; 
But  Ogier  gazed  upon  it  doubtfully 
One  moment,  and  then,  sheathing  Courtain,  said : 
"  What  tales  are  these  about  the  newly  dead 
The  heathen  told  ?  what  matter,  let  all  pass  ; 
This  moment  as  one  dead  indeed  I  was, 
And  this  must  be  what  I  have  got  to  do, 
I  yet  perchance  may  light  on  something  new 


152  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Before  I  die ;  though  yet  perchance  this  keel 
Unto  the  wondrous  mass  of  charmed  steel 
Is  drawn  as  others."     With  that  word  he  leapt 
Into  the  boat,  and  o'er  the  cushions  crept 
From  stem  to  stern,  but  found  no  rudder  there, 
Nor  any  oars,  nor  were  the  cushions  fair 
Made  wet  by  any  dashing  of  the  sea. 

Now  while  he  pondered  how  these  things  could  be 
The  boat  began  to  move  therefrom  at  last, 
But  over  him  a  drowsiness  was  cast, 
And  as  o'er  tumbling  hills  the  skiff  did  pass, 
He  clean  forgot  his  death  and  where  he  was. 


At  last  he  woke  up  to  a  sunny  day, 
And,  looking  round,  saw  that  his  shallop  lay 
Moored  at  the  edge  of  some  fair  tideless  sea 
Unto  an  overhanging  thick-leaved  tree, 
Where  in  the  green  waves  did  the  low  bank  dip 
Its  fresh  and  green  grass-covered  daisied  lip ; 
But  Ogier  looking  thence  no  more  could  see 
That  sad  abode  of  death  and  misery, 
Nor  aught  but  wide  and  empty  ocean,  grey 
With  gathering  haze,  for  now  it  neared  midday ; 
Then  from  the  golden  cushions  did  he  rise, 
And  wondering  still  if  this  were  Paradise 
He  stepped  ashore,  but  drew  Courtain  his  sword 
And  muttered  therewithal  a  holy  word. 

Fair  was  the  place,  as  though  amidst  of  May, 
Nor  did  the  brown  birds  fear  the  sunny  day, 
For  with  their  quivering  song  the  air  was  sweet ; 
Thick  grew  the  field-flowers  underneath  his  feet, 
And  on  his  head  the  blossoms  down  did  rain ; 
Yet  mid  these  fair  things,  slowly  and  with  pain 
He  'gan  to  go,  yea,  even  when  his  foot 
First  touched  the  flowery  sod,  to  his  heart's  root 
A  coldness  seemed  to  strike,  and  now  each  limb 
Was  growing  stiff,  his  eyes  waxed  bleared  and  dim, 
And  all  his  stored-up  memory  'gan  to  fail, 
Nor  yet  would  his  once  mighty  heart  avail 
For  lamentations  o'er  his  changed  lot; 
Yet  urged  by  some  desire,  he  knew  not  what, 
Along  a  little  path  'twixt  hedges  sweet, 


OGIER   THE  DANE.  153 

Drawn  sword  in  hand,  he  dragged  his  faltering  feet, 
For  what  then  seemed  to  him  a  weary  way, 
Whereon  his  steps  he  needs  must  often  stay 
And  lean  upon  the  mighty  well-worn  sword 
That  in  those  hands  grown  old,  for  king  or  lord 
Had  small  respect  in  glorious  days  long  past. 


But  still  he  crept  along,  and  at  the  last 
Came  to  a  gilded  wicket,  and  through  this 
Entered  a  garden  fit  for  utmost  bliss, 
If  that  might  la|t  which  needs  must  soon  go  by : 
There  'gainst  a  tree  he  leaned,  and  with  a  sigh 
He  said,  "  0  God,  a  sinner  I  have  been, 
And  good  it  is  that  I  these  things  have  seen 
Before  I  meet  what  Thou  hast  set  apart 
To  cleanse  the  earthly  folly  from  my  heart ; 
But  who  within  this  garden  now  can  dwell 
Wherein  guilt  first  upon  the  world  befell  ?  " 

A  little  further  yet  he  staggered  on, 
Till  to  a  fountain-side  at  last  he  won, 
O'er  which  two  white-thorns  their  sweet  blossoms  shed, 
There  he  sank  down,  and  laid  his  weary  head 
Beside  the  mossy  roots,  and  in  a  while 
He  slept,  and  dreamed  himself  within  the  isle; 
That  splashing  fount  the  weary  sea  did  seem, 
And  in  his  dream  the  fair  place  but  a  dream ; 
But  when  again  to  feebleness  he  woke 
Upon  his  ears  that  heavenly  music  broke, 
Not  faint  or  far  as  in  the  isle  it  was, 
But  e'en  as  though  the  minstrels  now  did  pass 
Anigh  his  resting-place ;  then  fallen  in  doubt, 
E'en  as  he  might,  he  rose  and  gazed  about, 
Leaning  against  the  hawthorn  stem  with  pain ; 
And  yet  his  straining  gaze  was  but  in  vain, 
Death  stole  so  fast  upon  him,  and  no  more 
Could  he  behold  the  blossoms  as  before, 
No  more  the  trees  seemed  rooted  to  the  ground, 
A  heavy  mist  seemed  gathering  all  around, 
And  in  its  heart  some  bright  thing  seemed  to  be, 
And  round  his  head  there  breathed  deliciously 
Sweet  odours,  and  that  music  never  ceased. 
But  as  the  weight  of  Death's  strong  hand  increased 


154  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Again  he  sank  adown,  and  Courtain's  noise 

Within  the  scabbard  seemed  a  farewell  voice 

Sent  from  the  world  he  loved  so  well  of  old, 

And  all  his  life  was  as  a  story  told, 

And  as  he  thought  thereof  he  'gan  to  smile 

E'en  as  a  child  asleep,  but  in  a  while 

It  was  as  though  he  slept,  and  sleeping  dreamed, 

For  in  his  half-closed  eyes  a  glory  gleamed, 

As  though  from  some  sweet  face  and  golden  hair, 

And  on  his  breast  were  laid  soft  hands  and  fair, 

And  a  sweet  voice  was  ringing  in  his  ears, 

Broken  as  if  with  flow  of  joyous  tears ; 

"Ogier,  sweet  friend,  hast  thou  not  tarried  long? 
Alas !  thine  hundred  years  of  strife  and  wrong ! " 
Then  he  found  voice  to  say,  "  Alas  !  dear  Lord, 
Too  long,  too  long ;  and  yet  one  little  word 
Bight  many  a  year  agone  had  brought  me  here." 
Then  to  his  face  that  face  was  drawn  anear, 
He  felt  his  head  raised  up  and  gently  laid 
On  some  kind  knee,  again  the  sweet  voice  said, 
"  Nay,  Ogier,  nay,  not  yet,  not  yet  dear  friend ! 
Who  knoweth  when  our  linked  life  shall  end, 
Since  thou  art  come  unto  mine  arms  at  last, 
And  all  the  turmoil  of  the  world  is  past  ? 
Why  do  I  linger  ere  I  see  thy  face 
As  I  desired  it  in  that  mourning  place 
So  many  years  ago  —  so  many  years, 
Thou  knewest  not  thy  love  and  all  her  fears  ?  " 

"  Alas ! "  he  said,  "  what  mockery  then  is  this 
That  thou  wilt  speak  to  me  of  earthly  bliss  ? 
No  longer  can  I  think  upon  the  earth, 
Have  I  not  done  with  all  its  grief  and  mirth  ? 
Yes,  I  was  Ogier  once,  but  if  my  love 
Should  come  once  more  my  dying  heart  to  move, 
Then  must  she  come  from  'neath  the  milk-white  walls 
Whereon  to-day  the  hawthorn  blossom  falls 
Outside  St.  Omer's  —  art  thou  she  ?  her  name, 
Which  I  remembered  once  mid  death  and  fame, 
Is  clean  forgotten  now ;  but  yesterday, 
Meseems,  our  son,  upon  her  bosom  lay : 
Baldwin  the  fair  —  what  hast  thou  done  with  him 
Since  Chariot  slew  him  ?    Ah,  mine  eyes  wax  dim ; 
Woman,  forbear !  wilt  thou  not  let  me  die  ? 


OGIER   THE  DANE.  155 

Did  I  forget  thee  in  the  days  gone  by  ? 
Then  let  me  die,  that  we  may  meet  again  I " 

He  tried  to  move  from  her,  but  all  in  vain, 
For  life  had  well-nigh  left  him,  but  withal 
He  felt  a  kiss  upon  his  forehead  fall, 
And  could  not  speak ;  he  felt  slim  fingers  fair 
Move  to  his  mighty  sword-worn  hand,  and  there 
Set  on  some  ring,  and  still  he  could  not  speak, 
And  once  more  sleep  weighed  down  his  eyelids  weak. 


But,  ah !  what  land  was  this  he  woke  unto  ? 
What  joy  was  this  that  filled  his  heart  anew  ? 
Had  he  then  gained  the  very  Paradise  ? 
Trembling,  he  durst  not  at  the  first  arise, 
Although  no  more  he  felt  the  pain  of  eld, 
Nor  durst  he  raise  his  eyes  that  now  beheld 
Beside  him  the  white  flowers  and  blades  of  grass ; 
He  durst  not  speak,  lest  he  some  monster  was. 

But  while  he  lay  and  hoped,  that  gentle  voice 
Once  more  he  heard;  "Yea,  thou  mayst  well  rejoice! 
Thou  livest  still,  my  sweet,  thou  livest  still, 
Apart  from  every  earthly  fear  and  ill; 
Wilt  thou  not  love  me,  who  have  wrought  thee  this, 
That  I  like  thee  may  live  in  double  bliss  ?  " 

Then  Ogier  rose  up,  nowise  like  to  one 
Whose  span  of  earthly  life  is  nigh  outrun, 
But  as  he  might  have  risen  in  old  days 
To  see  the  spears  cleave  the  fresh  morning  haze ; 
But,  looking  round,  he  saw  no  change  there  was 
In  the  fair  place  wherethrough  he  first  did  pass ; 
Though  all,  grown  clear  and  joyous  to  his  eyes, 
Now  looked  no  worse  than  very  Paradise ; 
Behind  him  were  the  thorns,  the  fountain  fair 
Still  sent  its  glittering  stream  forth  into  air, 
And  by  its  basin  a  fair  woman  stood, 
And  as  their  eyes  met,  his  renewed  blood 
Kushed  to  his  face ;  with  unused  thoughts  and  sweet 
And  hurrying  hopes,  his  heart  began  to  beat. 

The  fairest  of  all  creatures  did  she  seem ; 
So  fresh  and  delicate  you  well  might  deem 


156  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

That  scarce  for  eighteen  summers  had  she  blessed 
The  happy,  longing  world ;  yet,  for  the  rest, 
Within  her  glorious  eyes  such  wisdom  dwelt 
A  child  before  her  had  the  wise  man  felt ; 
And  with  the  pleasure  of  a  thousand  years 
Her  lips  were  fashioned  to  move  joy  or  tears 
Among  the  longing  folk  where  she  might  dwell, 
To  give  at  last  the  kiss  unspeakable. 

In  such  wise  was  she  clad  as  folk  may  be, 
Who,  for  no  shame  of  their  humanity, 
For  no  sad  changes  of  the  imperfect  year, 
Kather  for  added  beauty,  raiment  wear ; 
For,  as  the  heat-foretelling  grey-blue  haze 
Veils  the  green  flowery  morn  of  late  May-days, 
Her  raiment  veiled  her ;  where  the  bands  did  meet 
That  bound  the  sandals  to  her  dainty  feet, 
Gems  gleamed ;  a  fresh  rose-wreath  embraced  her  head, 
And  on  her  breast  there  lay  a  ruby  red. 

So  with  a  supplicating  look  she  turned 
To  meet  the  flame  that  in  his  own  eyes  burned, 
And  held  out  both  her  white  arms  lovingly, 
As  though  to  greet  him  as  he  drew  anigh. 
Stammering  he  said,  "  Who  art  thou  ?  how  am  I 
So  cured  of  all  my  evils  suddenly, 
That  certainly  I  felt  no  mightier,  when, 
Amid  the  backward  rush  of  beaten  men, 
About  me  drooped  the  axe-torn  Oriflamine  ? 
Alas !  I  fear  that  in  some  dream  I  am." 

"  Ogier,"  she  said,  "  draw  near,  perchance  it  is 
That  such  a  name  God  gives  unto  our  bliss ; 
I  know  not,  but  if  thou  art  such  an  one 
As  I  must  deem,  all  days  beneath  the  sun 
That  thou  hadst  had,  shall  be  but  dreams  indeed 
To  those  that  I  have  given  thee  at  thy  need. 
For  many  years  ago  beside  the  sea 
When  thou  wert  born,  I  plighted  troth  with  thee : 
Come  near  then,  and  make  mirrors  of  mine  eyes, 
That  thou  mayst  see  what  these  my  mysteries 
Have  wrought  in  thee ;  surely  but  thirty  years, 
Passed  amidst  joy,  thy  new-born  body  bears, 
Nor  while  thou  art  with  me,  and  on  this  shore 
Art  still  full-fed  of  love,  shalt  thou  seem  more. 
Nay,  love,  come  nigher,  and  let  me  take  thine  hand, 


OGIER    THE  DANE.  157 

The  hope  and  fear  of  many  a  warring  land, 
And  I  will  show  thee  wherein  lies  the  spell, 
Whereby  this  happy  change  upon  thee  fell." 

Like  a  shy  youth  before  some  royal  love, 
Close  up  to  that  fair  woman  did  he  move, 
And  their  hands  met ;  yet  to  his  changed  voice 
He  dared  not  trust;  nay,  scarcely  could  rejoice 
E'en  when  her  balmy  breath  he  'gan  to  feel, 
And  felt  strange  sweetness  o'er  his  spirit  steal 
As  her  light  raiment,  driven  by  the  wind, 
Swept  round  him,  and,  bewildered  and  half-blind, 
His  lips  the  treasure  of  her  lips  did  press, 
And  round  him  clung  her  perfect  loveliness. 

For  one  sweet  moment  thus  they  stood,  and  then 
She  drew  herself  from  out  his  arms  again, 
And  panting,  lovelier  for  her  love,  did  stand 
Apart  awhile,  then  took  her  lover's  hand, 
And,  in  a  trembling  voice,  made  haste  to  say,  — 

"  0  Ogier,  when  thou  earnest  here  to-day, 
I  feared  indeed,  that  in  my  play  with  fate, 
I  might  have  seen  thee  e'en  one  day  too  late, 
Before  this  ring  thy  finger  should  embrace ; 
Behold  it,  love,  and  thy  keen  eyes  may  trace 
Faint  figures  wrought  upon  the  ruddy  gold ; 
My  father  dying  gave  it  me,  nor  told 
The  manner  of  its  making,  but  I  know 
That  it  can  make  thee  e'en  as  thou  art  now 
Despite  the  laws  of  God  —  shrink  not  from  me 
Because  I  give  an  impious  gift  to  thee  — 
Has  not  God  made  me  also,  who  do  this  ? 
But  I,  who  longed  to  share  with  thee  my  bliss, 
Am  of  the  fays,  and  live  their  changeless  life, 
And,  like  the  gods  of  old,  I  see  the  strife 
That  moves  the  world,  unmoved  if  so  I  will ; 
For  we  the  fruit,  that  teaches  good  and  ill, 
Have  never  touched,  like  you  of  Adam's  race ; 
And  while  thou  dwellest  with  me  in  this  place 
Thus  shalt  thou  be  —  ah,  and  thou  deem'st,  indeed, 
That  thou  shalt  gain  thereby  no  happy  meed 
Reft  of  the  world's  joys?  nor  canst  understand 
How  thou  art  come  into  a  happy  land  ?  — 
Love,  in  thy  world  the  priests  of  heaven  still  sing, 


158  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  tell  thee  of  it  many  a  joyous  thing; 

But  think'st  thou,  bearing  the  world's  joy  and  pain 

Thou  couldst  live  there  ?  nay,  nay,  but  born  again 

Thou  wouldst  be  happy  with  the  angels'  bliss ; 

And  so  with  us  no  otherwise  it  is, 

Nor  hast  thou  cast  thine  old  life  quite  away 

Even  as  yet,  though  that  shall  be  to-day. 

"  But  for  the  love  and  country  thou  hast  won, 
Know  thou,  that  thou  art  come  to  Avallon, 
That  is  both  thine  and  mine ;  and  as  for  me, 
Morgan  le  Fay  men  call  me  commonly 
Within  the  world,  but  fairer  names  than  this 
I  have  for  thee  and  me,  'twixt  kiss  and  kiss." 

Ah,  what  was  this  ?  and  was  it  all  in  vain, 
That  she  had  brought  him  here  this  life  to  gain  ? 
For,  ere  her  speech  was  done,  like  one  turned  blind 
He  watched  the  kisses  of  the  wandering  wind 
Within  her  raiment ;  or  as  some  one  sees 
The  very  best  of  well-wrought  images 
When  he  is  blind  with  grief,  did  he  behold 
The  wandering  tresses  of  her  locks  of  gold 
Upon  her  shoulders ;  and  no  more  he  pressed 
The  hand  that  in  his  own  hand  lay  at  rest : 
His  eyes,  grown  dull  with  changing  memories, 
Could  make  no  answer  to  her  glorious  eyes : 
Cold  waxed  his  heart,  and  weary  and  distraught, 
With  many  a  cast-by,  hateful,  dreary  thought, 
Unfinished  in  the  old  days ;  and  withal 
He  needs  must  think  of  what  might  chance  to  fall 
In  this  life  new-begun  ;  and  good  and  bad 
Tormented  him,  because  as  yet  he  had 
A  worldly  heart  within  his  frame  made  new, 
And  to  the  deeds  that  he  was  wont  to  do 
Did  his  desires  still  turn.     But  she  a  while 
Stood  gazing  at  him  with  a  doubtful  smile, 
And  let  his  hand  fall  down ;  and  suddenly 
Sounded  sweet  music  from  some  close  nearby, 
And  then  she  spoke  again  :  "  Come,  love,  with  me, 
That  thou  thy  new  life  and  delights  mayst  see." 
And  gently  with  that  word  she  led  him  thence, 
And  though  upon  him  now  there  fell  a  sense 
Of  dreamy  and  unreal  bewilderment, 


OGIER    THE  DANE.  159 

As  hand  in  hand  through  that  green  place  they  went, 
Yet  therewithal  a  strain  of  tender  love 
A  little  yet  his  restless  heart  did  move. 

So  through  the  whispering  trees  they  came  at  last 
To  where  a  wondrous  house  a  shadow  cast 
Across  the  flowers,  and  o'er  the  daisied  grass 
Before  it,  crowds  of  lovely  folk  did  pass, 
Playing  about  in  carelessness  and  mirth, 
Unshadowed  by  the  doubtful  deeds  of  earth ; 
And  from  the  midst  a  band  of  fair  girls  came, 
With  flowers  and  music,  greeting  him  by  name, 
And  praising  him ;  but  ever  like  a  dream 
He  could  not  break,  did  all  to  Ogier  seem, 
And  he  his  old  world  did  the  more  desire, 
For  in  his  heart  still  burned  unquenched  the  fire, 
That  through  the  world  of  old  so  bright  did  burn: 
Yet  was  he  fain  that  kindness  to  return, 
And  from  the  depth  of  his  full  heart  he  sighed. 

Then  toward  the  house  the  lovely  Queen  did  guide 
His  listless  steps,  and  seemed  to  take  no  thought 
Of  knitted  brow  or  wandering  eyes  distraught, 
But  still  with  kind  love  lighting  up  her  face 
She  led  him  through  the  door  of  that  fair  place, 
While  round  about  them  did  the  damsels  press ; 
And  he  was  moved  by  all  that  loveliness 
As  one  might  be,  who,  lying  half  asleep 
In  the  May  morning,  notes  the  light  wind  sweep 
Over  the  tulip-beds :  no  more  to  him 
Were  gleaming  eyes,  red  lips,  and  bodies  slim, 
Amidst  that  dream,  although  the  first  surprise 
Of  hurried  love  wherewith  the  Queen's  sweet  eyes 
Had  smitten  him,  still  in  his  heart  did  stir. 

And  so  at  last  he  came,  led  on  by  her 
Into  a  hall  wherein  a  fair  throne  was, 
And  hand  in  hand  thereto  the  twain  did  pass  ; 
And  there  she  bade  him  sit,  and  when  alone 
He  took  his  place  upon  the  double  throne, 
She  cast  herself  before  him  on  her  knees, 
Embracing  his,  and  greatly  did  increase 
The  shame  and  love  that  vexed  his  troubled  heart : 
But  now  a  line  of  girls  the  crowd  did  part, 


160  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Lovelier  than  all,  and  Ogier  could  behold 

One  in  their  midst  who  bore  a  crown  of  gold 

Within  her  slender  hands  and  delicate ; 

She,  drawing  nigh,  beside  the  throne  did  wait 

Until  the  Queen  arose  and  took  the  crown, 

Who  then  to  Ogier's  lips  did  stoop  adown 

And  kissed  him,  and  said,  "  Ogier,  what  were  worth 

Thy  miserable  days  of  strife  on  earth, 

That  on  their  ashes  still  thine  eyes  are  turned  ?  " 

Then,  as  she  spoke  these  words,  his  changed  heart 

burned 

With  sudden  memories,  and  thereto  had  he 
Made  answer,  but  she  raised  up  suddenly 
The  crown  she  held  and  set  it  on  his  head, 
"  Ogier,"  she  cried,  "  those  troublous  days  are  dead ; 
Thou  wert  dead  with  them  also,  but  for  me ; 
Turn  unto  her  who  wrought  these  things  for  thee  ! " 

Then,  as  he  felt  her  touch,  a  mighty  wave 
Of  love  swept  o'er  his  soul,  as  though  the  grave 
Did  really  hold  his  body ;  from  his  seat 
He  rose  to  cast  himself  before  her  feet ; 
But  she  clung  round  him,  and  in  close  embrace 
The  twain  were  locked  amidst  that  thronging  place. 

Thenceforth  new  life  indeed  has  Ogier  won, 
And  in  the  happy  land  of  Avallon 
Quick  glide  the  years  o'er  his  unchanging  head ; 
There  saw  he  many  men  the  world  thought  dead, 
Living  like  him  in  sweet  forgetfulness 
Of  all  the  troubles  that  did  once  oppress 
Their  vainly -struggling  lives  —  ah,  how  can  I 
Tell  of  their  joy  as  though  I  had  been  nigh  ? 
Suffice  it  that  no  fear  of  death  they  knew, 
That  there  no  talk  there  was  of  false  or  true, 
Of  right  or  wrong,  for  traitors  came  not  there ; 
That  everything  was  bright  and  soft  and  fair, 
And  yet  they  wearied  not  for  any  change, 
Nor  unto  them  did  constancy  seem  strange. 
Love  knew  they,  but  its  pain  they  never  had, 
But  with  each  other's  joy  were  they  made  glad; 
Nor  were  their  lives  wasted  by  hidden  fire, 
Nor  knew  they  of  the  unfulfilled  desire 
That  turns  to  ashes  all  the  joys  of  earth, 


OGIER   THE  DANE.  161 

Nor  knew  they  yearning  love  amidst  the  dearth 
Of  kind  and  loving  hearts  to  spend  it  on, 
Nor  dreamed  of  discontent  when  all  was  won ; 
Nor  need  they  struggle  after  wealth  and  fame ; 
Still  was  the  calm  flow  of  their  lives  the  same, 
And  yet,  I  say,  they  wearied  not  of  it  — 
So  did  the  promised  days  by  Ogier  flit. 


Think  that  a  hundred  years  have  now  passed  by, 
Since  ye  beheld  Ogier  lie  down  to  die 
Beside  the  fountain ;  think  that  now  ye  are 
In  France,  made  dangerous  with  wasting  war ; 
In  Paris,  where  about  each  guarded  gate, 
Gathered  in  knots,  the  anxious  people  wait, 
And  press  around  each  new-come  man  to  learn 
If  Harfleur  now  the  pagan  wasters  burn, 
Or  if  the  Eouen  folk  can  keep  their  chain, 
Or  Pont  de  1'Arche  unburnt  still  guards  the  Seine  ? 
Or  if  't  is  true  that  Andelys  succour  wants  ? 
That  Vernon's  folk  are  fleeing  east  to  Mantes  ? 
When  will  they  come  ?  or  rather  is  it  true 
That  a  great  band  the  Constable  o'erthrew 
Upon  the  marshes  of  the  lower  Seine, 
And  that  their  long-ships,  turning  back  again, 
Caught  by  the  high-raised  waters  of  the  bore 
Were  driven  here  and  there  and  cast  ashore  ? 

Such  questions  did  they  ask,  and,  as  fresh  men 
Came  hurrying  in,  they  asked  them  o'er  again, 
And  from  scared  folk,  or  fools,  or  ignorant, 
Still  got  new  lies,  or  tidings  very  scant. 

But  now  amidst  these  men  at  last  came  one, 
A  little  ere  the  setting  of  the  sun, 
With  two  stout  men  behind  him,  armed  right  well, 
Who  ever  as  they  rode  on,  sooth  to  tell, 
With  doubtful  eyes  upon  their  master  stared, 
Or  looked  about  like  troubled  men  and  scared. 
And  he  they  served  was  noteworthy  indeed  ; 
Of  ancient  fashions  were  his  arms  and  weed, 
Rich  past  the  wont  of  men  in  those  sad  times ; 
His  face  was  bronzed,  as  though  by  burning  climes, 


162  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

But  lovely  as  the  image  of  a  god 

Carved  in  the  days  before  on  earth  Christ  trod; 

But  solemn  were  his  eyes,  and  grey  as  glass, 

And  like  to  ruddy  gold  his  fine  hair  was; 

A  mighty  man  he  was,  and  taller  far 

Than  those  who  on  that  day  must  bear  the  war 

The  pagans  waged :  he  by  the  warders  stayed, 

Scarce  looked  on  them,  but  straight  their  words 

obeyed 

And  showed  his  pass ;  then,  asked  about  his  name 
And  from  what  city  of  the  world  he  came, 
Said,  that  men  called  him  now  the  Ancient  Knight, 
That  he  was  come  midst  the  king's  men  to  fight 
From  St.  Omer ;  and  as  he  spoke,  he  gazed 
Down  on  the  thronging  street  as  one  amazed, 
And  answered  no  more  to  the  questioning 
Of  frightened  folk  of  this  or  that  sad  thing ; 
But,  ere  he  passed  on,  turned  about  at  last 
And  on  the  wondering  guard  a  strange  look  cast, 
And  said,  "  St.  Mary !  do  such  men  as  ye 
Fight  with  the  wasters  from  across  the  sea  ? 
Then,  certes,  are  ye  lost,  however  good 
Your  hearts  may  be ;  not  such  were  those  who  stood 
Beside  the  Hammer-bearer  years  agone." 

So  said  he,  and  as  his  fair  armour  shone 
With  beauty  of  a  time  long  passed  away, 
So  with  the  music  of  another  day 
His  deep  voice  thrilled  the  awe-struck,  listening  folk. 

Yet  from  the  crowd  a  mocking  voice  outbroke, 
That  cried,  "  Be  merry,  masters,  fear  ye  nought, 
Surely  good  succour  to  our  side  is  brought ; 
For  here  is  Charlemaine  come  off  his  tomb 
To  save  his  faithful  city  from  its  doom." 

"  Yea,"  said  another,  "  this  is  certain  news, 
Surely  ye  know  how  all  the  carvers  use 
To  carve  the  dead  man's  image  at  the  best, 
That  guards  the  place  where  he  may  lie  at  rest ; 
Wherefore  this  living  image  looks  indeed, 
Spite  of  his  ancient  tongue  and  marvellous  weed, 
To  have  but  thirty  summers." 

At  the  name 
Of  Charlemaine,  he  turned  to  whence  there  came 


OGIER    THE  DANE.  163 

The  mocking  voice,  and  somewhat  knit  his  brow, 
And  seemed  as  he  would  speak,  but  scarce  knew  how ; 
So  with  a  half-sigh  soon  sank  back  again 
Into  his  dream,  and  shook  his  well-wrought  rein, 
And  silently  went  on  upon  his  way. 

And  this  was  Ogier :  on  what  evil  day 
Has  he  then  stumbled,  that  he  needs  must  come, 
Midst  war  and  ravage,  to  the  ancient  home 
Of  his  desires  ?  did  he  grow  weary  then, 
And  wish  to  strive  once  more  with  foolish  men 
For  worthless  things  ?  or  is  fair  Avallon 
Sunk  in  the  sea,  and  all  that  glory  gone  ? 

Nay,  thus  it  happed  —  One  day  she  came  to  him 
And  said,  "  Ogier,  thy  name  is  waxing  dim 
Upon  the  world  that  thou  remeinberest  not; 
The  heathen  men  are  thick  on  many  a  spot 
Thine  eyes  have  seen,  and  which  I  love  therefore ; 
And  God  will  give  His  wonted  help  no  more. 
Wilt  thou,  then,  help  ?  canst  thou  have  any  mind 
To  give  thy  banner  once  more  to  the  wind  ? 
Since  greater  glory  thou  shalt  win  for  this 
Than  erst  thou  gatheredst  ere  thou  cam'st  to  bliss  : 
For  men  are  dwindled  both  in  heart  and  frame, 
Nor  holds  the  fair  land  any  such  a  name 
As  thine,  when  thou  wert  living  midst  thy  peers ; 
The  world  is  worser  for  these  hundred  years." 

From  his  calm  eyes  there  gleamed  a  little  fire, 
And  in  his  voice  was  something  of  desire, 
To  see  the  land  where  he  was  used  to  be, 
As  now  he  answered :  "  Nay,  choose  thou  for  me, 
Thou  art  the  wisest ;  it  is  more  than  well 
Within  this  peaceful  place  with  thee  to  dwell : 
Nor  ill  perchance  in  that  old  land  to  die, 
If,  dying,  I  keep  not  the  memory 
Of  this  fair  life  of  ours."     "  Nay,  nay,"  said  she, 
"  As  to  thy  dying,  that  shall  never  be, 
Whiles  that  thou  keep'st  my  ring  —  and  now,  behold, 
I  take  from  thee  thy  charmed  crown  of  gold, 
And  thou  wilt  be  the  Ogier  that  thou  wast 
Ere  on  the  loadstone  rock  thy  ship  was  cast : 
Yet  thou  shalt  have  thy  youthful  body  still, 
And  I  will  guard  thy  life  from  every  ill." 


164  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

So  was  it  done,  and  Ogier,  armed  right  well, 
Sleeping,  was  borne  away  by  some  strong  spell, 
And  set  upon  the  Flemish  coast ;  and  thence 
Turned  to  St.  Omer,  with  a  doubtful  sense 
Of  being  in  some  wild  dream,  the  while  he  knew 
That  great  delight  forgotten  was  his  due, 
That  all  which  there  might  hap  was  of  small  worth. 

So  on  he  went,  and  sometimes  unto  mirth 
Did  his  attire  move  the  country-folk, 
But  oftener  when  strange  speeches  from  him  broke 
Concerning  men  and  things  for  long  years  dead, 
He  filled  the  listeners  with  great  awe  and  dread; 
For  in  such  wild  times  as  these  people  were 
Are  men  soon  moved  to  wonder  and  to  fear. 

Now  through  the  streets  of  Paris  did  he  ride, 
And  at  a  certain  hostel  did  abide 
Throughout  that  night,  and  ere  he  went  next  day 
He  saw  a  book  that  on  a  table  lay, 
And  opening  it  'gan  read  in  lazy  mood  : 
But  long  before  it  in  that  place  he  stood, 
Noting  nought  else ;  for  it  did  chronicle 
The  deeds  of  men  whom  once  he  knew  right  well, 
When  they  were  living  in  the  flesh  with  him  : 
Yea,  his  own  deeds  he  saw,  grown  strange  and  dim 
Already,  and  true  stories  mixed  with  lies, 
Until,  with  many  thronging  memories 
Of  those  old  days,  his  heart  was  so  oppressed, 
He  'gan  to  wish  that  he  might  lie  at  rest, 
Forgetting  all  things  :  for  indeed  by  this 
Little  remembrance  had  he  of  the  bliss 
That  wrapped  his  soul  in  peaceful  Avallon. 

But  his  changed  life  he  needs  must  carry  on ; 
For  ye  shall  know  the  Queen  was  gathering  men 
To  send  unto  the  good  King,  who  as  then 
In  Rouen  lay,  beset  by  many  a  band 
Of  those  who  carried  terror  through  the  land, 
And  still  by  messengers  for  help  he  prayed : 
Therefore  a  mighty  muster  was  being  made, 
Of  weak  and  strong,  and  brave  and  timorous, 
Before  the  Queen  anigh  her  royal  house. 
So  thither  on  this  morn  did  Ogier  turn, 


OGIER    THE  DANE.  165 

Some  certain  news  about  the  war  to  learn ; 

And  when  he  came  at  last  into  the  square, 

And  saw  the  ancient  palace  great  and  fair 

Bise  up  before  him  as  in  other  days, 

And  in  the  merry  morn  the  bright  sun's  rays 

Glittering  on  gathered  helms  and  moving  spears, 

He  'gan  to  feel  as  in  the  long-past  years, 

And  his  heart  stirred  within  him.     Now  the  Queen 

Came  from  within,  right  royally  beseen, 

And  took  her  seat  beneath  a  canopy, 

With  lords  and  captains  of  the  war  anigh; 

And  as  she  came  a  mighty  shout  arose, 

And  round  about  began  the  knights  to  close, 

Their  oath  of  fealty  to  swear  anew, 

And  learn  what  service  they  had  got  to  do. 

But  so  it  was,  that  some  their  shouts  must  stay 

To  gaze  at  Ogier  as  he  took  his  way 

Through  the  thronged  place ;  and  quickly  too  he  gat 

Unto  the  place  whereas  the  Lady  sat, 

For  men  gave  place  unto  him,  fearing  him : 

For  not  alone  was  he  most  huge  of  limb, 

And  dangerous,  but  something  in  his  face, 

As  his  calm  eyes  looked  o'er  the  crowded  place, 

Struck  men  with  awe ;  and  in  the  ancient  days, 

When  men  might  hope  alive  on  gods  to  gaze, 

They  would  have  thought,  "  The  gods  yet  love  our  town 

And  from  the  heavens  have  sent  a  great  one  down." 

Withal  unto  the  throne  he  came  so  near, 
That  he  the  Queen's  sweet  measured  voice  could  hear ; 
And  swiftly  now  within  him  wrought  the  change 
That  first  he  felt  amid  those  faces  strange ; 
And  his  heart  burned  to  taste  the  hurrying  life 
With  such  desires,  such  changing  sweetness  rife. 
And  yet,  indeed,  how  should  he  live  alone, 
Who  in  the  old  past  days  such  friends  had  known  ? 
Then  he  began  to  think  of  Caraheu, 
Of  Bellicent  the  fair,  and  once  more  knew 
The  bitter  pain  of  rent  and  ended  love. 
But  while  with  hope  and  vain  regret  he  strove, 
He  found  none  'twixt  him  and  the  Queen's  high  seat, 
And,  stepping  forth,  he  knelt  before  her  feet 
And  took  her  hand  to  swear,  as  was  the  way 
Of  doing  fealty  in  that  ancient  day, 


166  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  raised  his  eyes  to  her ;  as  fair  was  she 

As  any  woman  of  the  world  might  be, 

Full-limbed  and  tall,  dark-haired,  from  her  deep  eyes, 

The  snare  of  fools,  the  ruin  of  the  wise, 

Love  looked  unchecked ;  and  now  her  dainty  hand, 

The  well-knit  holder  of  the  golden  wand, 

Trembled  in  his,  she  cast  her  eyes  adown, 

And  her  sweet  brow  was  knitted  to  a  frown, 

As  he,  the  taker  of  such  oaths  of  yore, 

Now  unto  her  all  due  obedience  swore, 

Yet  gave  himself  no  name ;  and  now  the  Queen, 

Awed  by  his  voice  as  other  folk  had  been, 

Yet  felt  a  trembling  hope  within  her  rise 

Too  sweet  to  think  of,  and  with  love's  surprise 

Her  cheek  grew  pale;   she  said,  "Thy  style  and 

name 

Thou  tellest  not,  nor  what  land  of  thy  fame 
Is  glad ;  for,  cert.es,  some  land  must  be  glad, 
That  in  its  bounds  her  house  thy  mother  had." 

"  Lady,"  he  said,  "  from  what  far  land  I  come 
I  well  might  tell  thee,  but  another  home 
Have  I  long  dwelt  in,  and  its  name  have  I 
Forgotten  now,  forgotten  utterly 
Who  were  my  fellows,  and  what  deeds  they  did ; 
Therefore,  indeed,  shall  my  first  name  be  hid 
And  my  first  country ;  call  me  on  this  day 
The  Ancient  Knight,  and  let  me  go  my  way." 
He  rose  withal,  for  her  fingers  fair 
Had  drawn  aback,  and  on  him  'gan  to  stare 
As  one  afeard ;  for  something  terrible 
Was  in  his  speech,  and  that  she  knew  right  well, 
Who  'gan  to  love  him,  and  to  fear  that  she, 
Shut  out  by  some  strange  deadly  mystery, 
Should  never  gain  from  him  an  equal  love ; 
Yet,  as  from  her  high  seat  he  'gan  to  move, 
She  said,  "  0  Ancient  Knight,  come  presently, 
When  we  have  done  this  muster,  unto  me, 
And  thou  shalt  have  thy  charge  and  due  command 
For  freeing  from  our  foes  this  wretched  land ! " 

Then  Ogier  made  his  reverence  and  went, 
And  somewhat  could  perceive  of  her  intent ; 
For  in  his  heart  life  grew,  and  love  with  life 
Grew,  and  therewith,  'twixt  love  and  fame,  was  strife. 


OGIER   THE  DANE.  167 

But,  as  he  slowly  gat  him  from  the  square, 
Gazing  at  all  the  people  gathered  there, 
A  squire  of  the  Queen's  behind  him  came, 
And  breathless,  called  him  by  his  new-coined  name, 
And  bade  him  turn,  because  the  Queen  now  bade, 
Since  by  the  muster  long  she  might  be  stayed, 
That  to  the  palace  he  should  bring  him  straight, 
Midst  sport  and  play  her  coming  back  to  wait ; 
Then  Ogier  turned,  nought  loath,  and  with  him  went, 
And  to  a  postern-gate  his  steps  he  bent, 
That  Ogier  knew  right  well  in  days  of  old ; 
Worn  was  it  now,  and  the  bright  hues  and  gold 
Upon  the  shields  above,  with  lapse  of  days, 
Were  faded  much :  but  now  did  Ogier  gaze 
Upon  the  garden  where  he  walked  of  yore, 
Holding  the  hands  that  he  should  see  no  more ; 
For  all  was  changed  except  the  palace  fair, 
That  Charlemaine's  own  eyes  had  seen  built  there 
Ere  Ogier  knew  him ;  there  the  squire  did  lead 
The  Ancient  Knight,  who  still  took  little  heed 
Of  all  the  things  that  by  the  way  he  said, 
For  all  his  thoughts  were  on  the  days  long  dead. 

There  in  the  painted  hall  he  sat  again, 
And  'neath  the  pictured  eyes  of  Charlemaine 
He  ate  and  drank,  and  felt  it  like  a  dream ; 
And  midst  his  growing  longings  yet  might  deem 
That  he  from  sleep  should  wake  up  presently 
In  some  fair  city  on  the  Syrian  sea, 
Or  on  the  brown  rocks  of  the  loadstone  isle. 
But  fain  to  be  alone,  within  a  while 
He  gat  him  to  the  garden,  and  there  passed 
By  wondering  squires  and  damsels,  till  at  last, 
Far  from  the  merry  folk  who  needs  must  play, 
If  on  the  world  were  coming  its  last  day, 
He  sat  him  down ;  and  through  his  mind  there  ran 
Faint  thoughts  of  that  day,  when,  outworn  and  wan, 
He  lay  down  by  the  fountain-side  to  die. 
But  when  he  strove  to  gain  clear  memory 
Of  what  had  happed  since  on  the  isle  he  lay 
Waiting  for  death,  a  hopeless  castaway, 
Thought,  failing  him,  would  rather  bring  again 
His  life  among  the  peers  of  Charlemaine, 
And  vex  his  soul  with  hapless  memories ; 


168  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Until  at  last,  worn  out  by  thought  of  these, 
And  hopeless  striving  to  find  what  was  true, 
And  pondering  on  the  deeds  he  had  to  do 
Ere  he  returned,  whereto  he  could  not  tell, 
Sweet  sleep  upon  his  wearied  spirit  fell. 
And  on  the  afternoon  of  that  fair  day, 
Forgetting  all,  beneath  the  trees  he  lay. 

Meanwhile  the  Queen,  affairs  of  state  being  done, 
Went  through  the  gardens  with  one  dame  alone 
Seeking  for  Ogier,  whom  at  last  she  found 
Laid  sleeping  on  the  daisy-sprinkled  ground 
Dreaming,  I  know  not  what,  of  other  days. 
Then  on  him  for  a  while  the  Queen  did  gaze, 
Drawing  sweet  poison  from  the  lovely  sight, 
Then  to  her  fellow  turned,  "  The  Ancient  Knight  — 
What  means  he  by  this  word  of  his  ?  "  she  said ; 
"  He  were  well  mated  with  some  lovely  maid 
Just  pondering  on  the  late-heard  name  of  love." 

"  Softly,  my  lady,  he  begins  to  move," 
Her  fellow  said,  a  woman  old  and  grey ; 
"  Look  now,  his  arms  are  of  another  day ; 
None  know  him  or  his  deeds ;  thy  squire  just  said 
He  asked  about  the  state  of  men  long  dead ; 
I  fear  what  he  may  be  ;  look,  seest  thou  not 
That  ring  that  on  one  finger  he  has  got, 
Where  figures  strange  upon  the  gold  are  wrought : 
God  grant  that  he  from  hell  has  not  been  brought 
For  our  confusion,  in  this  doleful  war, 
Who  surely  in  enough  of  trouble  are 
Without  such  help ;  "  then  the  Queen  turned  aside 
Awhile,  her  drawn  and  troubled  face  to  hide, 
For  lurking  dread  this  speech  within  her  stirred ; 
But  yet  she  said,  "  Thou  sayest  a  foolish  word, 
This  man  is  come  against  our  enemies 
To  fight  for  us."     Then  down  upon  her  knees 
Fell  the  old  woman  by  the  sleeping  knight. 
And  from  his  hand  she  drew  with  fingers  light 
The  wondrous  ring,  and  scarce  again  could  rise 
Ere  'neath  the  trembling  Queen's  bewildered  eyes 
The  change  began ;  his  golden  hair  turned  white, 
His  smooth  cheek  wrinkled,  and  his  breathing  light 
Was  turned  to  troublous  struggling  for  his  breath, 


OGIER   THE  DANE.  169 

And  on  his  shrunk  lips  lay  the  hand  of  death; 

And,  scarce  less  pale  than  he,  the  trembling  Queen 

Stood  thinking  on  the  beauty  she  had  seen 

And  longed  for  but  a  little  while  ago, 

Yet  with  her  terror  still  her  love  did  grow, 

And  she  began  to  weep  as  though  she  saw 

Her  beauty  e'en  to  such  an  ending  draw. 

And  'neath  her  tears  waking  he  oped  his  eyes, 

And  strove  to  speak,  but  nought  but  gasping  sighs 

His  lips  could  utter ;  then  he  tried  to  reach 

His  hand  to  them,  as  though  he  would  beseech 

The  gift  of  what  was  his :  but  all  the  while 

The  crone  gazed  on  them  with  an  evil  smile, 

Then  holding  toward  the  Queen  that  wondrous  ring, 

She  said,  "  Why  weep'st  thou  ?  having  this  fair  thing, 

Thou,  losing  nought  the  beauty  that  thou  hast, 

Mayst  watch  the  vainly  struggling  world  go  past, 

Thyself  unchanged."     The  Queen  put  forth  her  hand 

And  took  the  ring,  and  there  awhile  did  stand 

And  strove  to  think  of  it,  but  still  in  her 

Such  all-absorbing  longings  love  did  stir, 

So  young  she  was,  of  death  she  could  not  think, 

Or  what  a  cup  eld  gives  to  man  to  drink ; 

Yet  on  her  finger  had  she  set  the  ring 

When  now  the  life  that  hitherto  did  cling 

To  Ogier's  heart  seemed  fading  quite  away, 

And  scarcely  breathing,  with  shut  eyes  he  lay. 

Then,  kneeling  down,  she  murmured  piteously, 

"  Ah,  wilt  thou  love  me  if  I  give  it  thee, 

And  thou  grow'st  young  again  ?  what  should  I  do 

If  with  the  eyes  thou  thus  shalt  gain  anew 

Thou  shouldst  look  scorn  on  me  ?  "     But  with  that  word 

The  hedge  behind  her,  by  the  west  wind  stirred, 

Cast  fear  into  her  heart  of  some  one  nigh, 

And  therewith  on  his  finger  hastily 

She  set  the  ring,  then  rose  and  stood  apart 

A  little  way,  and  in  her  doubtful  heart 

With  love  and  fear  was  mixed  desire  of  life. 

But  standing  so,  a  look  with  great  scorn  rife 
The  elder  woman,  turning,  cast  on  her, 
Pointing  to  Ogier,  who  began  to  stir ; 
She  looked,  and  all  she  erst  saw  now  did  seem 
To  have  been  nothing  but  a  hideous  dream, 


170  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

As  fair  and  young  he  rose  from  off  the  ground 

And  cast  a  dazed  and  puzzled  look  around, 

Like  one  just  waked  from  sleep  in  some  strange  placej 

But  soon  his  grave  eyes  rested  on  her  face, 

And  turned  yet  graver  seeing  her  so  pale, 

And  that  her  eyes  were  pregnant  with  some  tale 

Of  love  and  fear ;  she  'neath  his  eyes  the  while 

Forced  her  pale  lips  to  semblance  of  a  smile, 

And  said,  "  0  Ancient  Knight,  thou  sleepest  then  ? 

While  through  this  poor  land  range  the  heathen  men, 

Unmet  of  any  but  my  King  and  Lord : 

Nay,  let  us  see  the  deeds  of  thine  old  sword." 

"  Queen,"  said  he,  "  bid  me  then  unto  this  work, 
And  certes  I  behind  no  wall  would  lurk, 
Nor  send  for  succour,  while  a  scanty  folk 
Still  followed  after  me  to  break  the  yoke  : 
I  pray  thee  grace  for  sleeping,  and  were  fain 
That  I  might  rather  never  sleep  again 
Than  have  such  wretched  dreams  as  I  e'en  now 
Have  waked  from." 

Lovelier  she  seemed  to  grow 
Unto  him  as  he  spoke  ;  fresh  colour  came 
Into  her  face,  as  though  for  some  sweet  shame, 
While  she  with  tearful  eyes  beheld  him  so, 
That  somewhat  even  must  his  burnt  cheek  glow, 
His  heart  beat  faster.     But  again  she  said, 
"  Nay,  will  dreams  burden  such  a  mighty  head  ? 
Then  may  I  too  have  pardon  for  a  dream ; 
Last  night  in  sleep  I  saw  thee,  who  didst  seem 
To  be  the  King  of  France ;  and  thou  and  I 
Were  sitting  at  some  great  festivity 
Within  the  many-peopled  gold-hung  place." 

The  blush  of  shame  was  gone,  as  on  his  face 
She  gazed,  and  saw  him  read  her  meaning  clear 
And  knew  that  no  cold  words  she  had  to  fear, 
But  rather  that  for  softer  speech  he  yearned. 
Therefore,  with  love  alone  her  smooth  cheek  burned  ; 
Her  parted  lips  were  hungry  for  his  kiss, 
She  trembled  at  the  near  approaching  bliss ; 

Nathless,  she  checked  her  love  a  little  while, 
Because  she  felt  the  old  dame's  curious  smile 
Upon  her,  and  she  said,  "  0  Ancient  Knight, 
If  I  then  read  my  last  night's  dream  aright, 


OGIER    THE  DANE.  171 

Thou  art  come  here  our  very  help  to  be, 
Perchance  to  give  my  husband  back  to  me ; 
Come  then,  if  thou  this  land  art  fain  to  save, 
And  show  the  wisdom  thou  must  surely  have 
Unto  my  council ;  I  will  give  thee  then 
What  charge  I  may  among  my  valiant  men ; 
And  certes  thou  wilt  do  so  well  herein, 
That,  ere  long,  something  greater  shalt  thou  win: 
Come,  then,  deliverer  of  my  throne  and  land, 
And  let  me  touch  for  once  thy  mighty  hand 
With  these  weak  fingers." 

As  she  spoke,  she  met 
His  eager  hand,  and  all  things  did  forget 
But  for  one  moment ;  for  too  wise  were  they 
To  cast  the  coming  years  of  joy  away ; 
Then  with  her  other  hand  her  gown  she  raised 
And  led  him  thence,  and  o'er  her  shoulder  gazed 
At  her  old  follower  with  a  doubtful  smile, 
As  though  to  say,  "  Be  wise,  I  know  thy  guile ! " 

But  slowly  she  behind  the  lovers  walked, 
Muttering,  "  So  be  it !  thou  shalt  not  be  balked 
Of  thy  desire;  be  merry  !  I  am  wise, 
Nor  will  I  rob  thee  of  thy  Paradise 
For  any  other  than  myself ;  and  thou 
Mayst  even  happen  to  have  had  enow 
Of  this  new  love,  before  I  get  the  ring, 
And  I  may  work  for  thee  no  evil  thing." 

Now  ye  shall  know  that  the  old  chronicle, 
Wherein  I  read  all  this,  doth  duly  tell 
Of  all  the  gallant  deeds  that  Ogier  did, 
There  may  ye  read  them ;  nor  let  me  be  chid 
If  I  therefore  say  little  of  these  things, 
Because  the  thought  of  Avallon  still  clings 
Unto  my  heart,  and  scarcely  can  I  bear 
To  think  of  that  long,  dragging,  useless  year 
Through  which,  with  dulled  and  glimmering,  memory, 
Ogier  was  grown  content  to  live  and  die 
Like  other  men ;  but  this  I  have  to  say, 
That  in  the  council  chamber  on  that  day 
The  Old  Knight  showed  his  wisdom  well  enow, 
While  fainter  still  with  love  the  Queen  did  grow 
Hearing  his  words,  beholding  his  grey  eyes 


172  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Flashing  with  fire  of  warlike  memories  ; 

Yea,  at  the  last  he  seemed  so  wise  indeed 

That  she  could  give  him  now  the  charge,  to  lead 

One  wing  of  the  great  army  that  set  out 

From  Paris'  gates,  midst  many  a  wavering  shout, 

Midst  trembling  prayers,  and  unchecked  wails  and  tears, 

And  slender  hopes  and  unresisted  fears. 

Now  ere  he  went,  upon  his  bed  he  lay, 
Newly  awakened  at  the  dawn  of  day, 
Gathering  perplexed  thoughts  of  many  a  thing, 
When,  midst  the  carol  that  the  birds  did  sing 
Unto  the  coming  of  the  hopeful  sun, 
He  heard  a  sudden  lovesome  song  begun 
'Twixt  two  young  voices  in  the  garden  green, 
That  seemed  indeed  the  farewell  of  the  Queen. 

SONG. 


In  the  white-flowered  hawthorn  brake, 
Love,  be  merry  for  my  sake; 
Twine  the  blossoms  in  my  hair, 
Kiss  me  where  I  am  most  fair  — 
Kiss  me,  love  !  for  who  knoweth 
What  thing  cometh  after  death  ? 


Nay,  the  garlanded  gold  hair 
Hides  thee  where  thou  art  most  fair; 
Sides  the  rose-tinged  hills  of  snow  — 
Ah,  sweet  love,  I  have  thee  now  ! 
Kiss  me,  love  !  for  who  knoweth 
What  thing  cometh  after  death? 

HJEC. 

Shall  we  weep  for  a  dead  day, 
Or  set  Sorrow  in  our  way  ? 
Hidden  by  my  golden  hair, 
Wilt  thou  weep  that  sweet  days  wear? 
Kiss  me,  love  I  for  who  knoweth 
WJtat  thing  cometh  after  death? 


OGIER    THE  DANE.  173 


Weep,  0  Love,  the  days  that  flit, 
Now,  ichile  I  can  feel  thy  breath; 

Then  may  I  remember  it 
Sad  and  old,  and  near  my  death. 

Kiss  me,  love  !  for  who  knoweth 

What  thing  cometh  after  death  ! 

Soothed  by  the  pleasure  that  the  music  brought 

And  sweet  desire,  and  vague  and  dreamy  thought 

Of  happiness  it  seemed  to  promise  him, 

He  lay  and  listened  till  his  eyes  grew  dim, 

And  o'er  him  'gan  forgetfulness  to  creep 

Till  in  the  growing  light  he  lay  asleep, 

Nor  woke  until  the  clanging  trumpet-blast 

Had  summoned  him  all  thought  away  to  cast: 

Yet  one  more  joy  of  love  indeed  he  had 

Ere  with  the  battle's  noise  he  was  made  glad ; 

For,  as  on  that  May  morning  forth  they  rode 

And  passed  before  the  Queen's  most  fair  abode, 

There  at  a  window  was  she  waiting  them 

In  fair  attire  with  gold  in  every  hem, 

And  as  the  Ancient  Knight  beneath  her  passed 

A  wreath  of  flowering  white-thorn  down  she  cast, 

And  looked  farewell  to  him,  and  forth  he  set 

Thinking  of  all  the  pleasure  he  should  get 

From  love  and  war,  forgetting  Avallon 

And  all  that  lovely  life  so  lightly  won ; 

Yea,  now  indeed  the  earthly  life  o'erpast 

Ere  on  the  loadstone  rock  his  ship  was  cast 

Was  waxing  dim,  nor  yet  at  all  he  learned 

To  'scape  the  fire  that  erst  his  heart  had  burned. 

And  he  forgat  his  deeds,  forgat  his  fame, 

Forgat  the  letters  of  his  ancient  name 

As  one  waked  fully  shall  forget  a  dream, 

That  once  to  him  a  wondrous  tale  did  seem. 


Now  I,  though  writing  here  no  chronicle 
E'en  as  I  said,  must  nathless  shortly  tell 
That,  ere  the  army  Rouen's  gates  could  gain 
By  a  broad  arrow  had  the  King  been  slain, 


174  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  helpless  now  the  wretched  country  lay 

Beneath  the  yoke,  until  the  glorious  day 

When  Ogier  fell  at  last  upon  the  foe, 

And  scattered  them  as  helplessly  as  though 

They  had  been  beaten  men  without  a  name : 

So  when  to  Paris  town  once  more  he  caine 

Few  folk  the  memory  of  the  King  did  keep 

Within  their  hearts,  and  if  the  folk  did  weep 

At  his  returning,  'twas  for  joy  indeed 

That  such  a  man  had  risen  at  their  need 

To  work  for  them  so  great  deliverance, 

And  loud  they  called  on  him  for  King  of  France. 

But  if  the  Queen's  heart  were  the  more  a-flame 
For  all  that  she  had  heard  of  his  great  fame, 
I  know  not ;  rather  with  some  hidden  dread 
Of  coming  fate,  she  heard  her  lord  was  dead, 
And  her  false  dream  seemed  coming  true  at  last, 
For  the  clear  sky  of  love  seemed  overcast 
With  clouds  of  God's  great  judgments,  and  the  fear 
Of  hate  and  final  parting  drawing  near. 

So  now  when  he  before  her  throne  did  stand 
Amidst  the  throng  as  saviour  of  the  land, 
And  she  her  eyes  to  his  kind  eyes  did  raise, 
And  there  before  all  her  own  love  must  praise ; 
Then  did  she  fall  a-weeping,  and  folk  said, 
"  See,  how  she  sorrows  for  the  newly  dead ! 
Amidst  our  joy  she  needs  must  think  of  him; 
Let  be,  full  surely  shall  her  grief  wax  dim 
And  she  shall  wed  again." 

So  passed  the  year, 

While  Ogier  set  himself  the  land  to  clear 
Of  broken  remnants  of  the  heathen  men, 
And  at  the  last,  when  May-time  came  again, 
Must  he  be  crowned  King  of  the  twice-saved  land, 
And  at  the  altar  take  the  fair  Queen's  hand 
And  wed  her  for  his  own.     And  now  by  this 
Had  he  forgotten  clean  the  woe  and  bliss 
Of  his  old  life,  and  still  was  he  made  glad 
As  other  men ;  and  hopes  and  fears  he  had 
As  others,  and  bethought  him  not  at  all 
Of  what  strange  days  upon  him  yet  should  fall 
When  he  should  live  and  these  again  be  dead. 


OGIER   THE  DANE.  175 

Now  drew  the  time  round  when  he  should  be  wed, 
And  in  his  palace  on  his  bed  he  lay 
Upon  the  dawning  of  the  very  day : 
'Twixt  sleep  and  waking  was  he,  and  could  hear 
E'en  at  that  hour,  through  the  bright  morn  and  clear, 
The  hammering  of  the  folk  who  toiled  to  make 
Some  well-wrought  stages  for  the  pageant's  sake, 
Though  hardly  yet  the  sparrows  had  begun 
To  twitter  o'er  the  coming  of  the  sun, 
Nor  through  the  palace  did  a  creature  move. 

There  in  the  sweet  entanglement  of  love 
Midst  languid  thoughts  of  greater  bliss  he  lay, 
Remembering  no  more  of  that  other  day 
Than  the  hot  noon  remembereth  of  the  night, 
Than  summer  thinketh  of  the  winter  white. 

In  that  sweet  hour  he  heard  a  voice  that  cried, 
"  Ogier,  Ogier ! "  then,  opening  his  eyes  wide, 
And  rising  on  his  elbow,  gazed  around, 
And  strange  to  him  and  empty  was  the  sound 
Of  his  own  name  ;  "  Whom  callest  thou  ?  "  he  said 
"  For  I,  the  man  who  lie  upon  this  bed, 
Ain  Charles  of  France,  and  shall  be  King  to-day, 
But  in  a  year  that  now  is  passed  away 
The  Ancient  Knight  they  called  me :  who  is  this, 
Thou  callest  Ogier,  then,  what  deeds  are  his  ? 
And  who  art  thou  ?  "     But  at  that  word  a  sigh, 
As  of  one  grieved,  came  from  some  place  anigh 
His  bed-side,  and  a  soft  voice  spake  again, 
"  This  Ogier  once  was  great  amongst  great  men ; 
To  Italy  a  helpless  hostage  led; 
He  saved  the  King  when  the  false  Lombard  fled, 
Bore  forth  the  Oriflamme  and  gained  the  day ; 
Chariot  he  brought  back,  whom  men  led  away, 
And  fought  a  day-long  fight  with  Caraheu. 
The  ravager  of  Rome  his  right  hand  slew ; 
Nor  did  he  fear  the  might  of  Charlemaine, 
Who  for  a  dreary  year  beset  in  vain 
His  lonely  castle  ;  yet  at  last  caught  then, 
And  shut  in  hold,  needs  must  he  come  again 
To  give  an  unhoped  great  deliverance 
Unto  the  burdened  helpless  land  of  France : 
Denmark  he  gained  thereafter,  and  he  wore 
The  crown  of  England  drawn  from  trouble  sore ; 


176  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

At  Tyre  then  he  reigned  ;  and  Babylon 
With  mighty  deeds  he  from  the  f oemen  won ; 
And  when  scarce  aught  could  give  him  greater  fame, 
He  left  the  world  still  thinking  on  his  name. 

"  These  things  did  Ogier,  and  these  things  didst  thou, 
Nor  will  I  call  thee  by  a  new  name  now 
Since  I  have  spoken  words  of  love  to  thee  — 
Ogier,  Ogier,  dost  thou  remember  me, 
E'en  if  thou  hast  no  thought  of  that  past  time 
Before  thou  earnest  to  our  happy  clime  ?  " 

As  this  was  said,  his  mazed  eyes  saw  indeed 
A  lovely  woman  clad  in  dainty  weed 
Beside  his  bed,  and  many  a  thought  was  stirred 
Within  his  heart  by  that  last  plaintive  word, 
Though  nought  he  said,  but  waited  what  should  come. 
"  Love,"  said  she,  "  I  am  here  to  bring  thee  home ; 
WTell  hast  thou  done  all  that  thou  cam'st  to  do, 
And  if  thou  bidest  here,  for  something  new 
Will  folk  begin  to  cry,  and  all  thy  fame 
Shall  then  avail  thee  but  for  greater  blame ; 
Thy  love  shall  cease  to  love  thee,  and  the  earth 
Thou  lovest  now  shall  be  of  little  worth 
While  still  thou  keepest  life,  abhorring  it. 
Behold,  in  men's  lives  that  so  quickly  flit 
Thus  is  it ;  how  then  shall  it  be  with  thee, 
Who  some  faint  image  of  eternity 
Hast  gained  through  me  ?  —  alas,  thou  heedest  not ! 
On  all  these  changing  things  thine  heart  is  hot  — 
Take  then  this  gift  that  I  have  brought  from  far, 
And  then  may'st  thou  remember  what  we  are ; 
The  lover  and  the  loved  from  long  ago." 

He  trembled,  and  more  memory  seemed  to  grow 
Within  his  heart  as  he  beheld  her  stand, 
Holding  a  glittering  crown  in  her  right  hand : 
"  Ogier,"  she  said,  "  arise  and  do  on  thee 
The  emblems  of  thy  worldly  sovereignty, 
For  we  must  pass  o'er  many  a  sea  this  morn." 

He  rose,  and  in  the  glittering  tunic  worn 
By  Charlemaine  he  clad  himself,  and  took 
The  ivory  hand,  that  Charlemaine  once  shook 
Over  the  people's  heads  in  days  of  old ; 
Then  on  his  feet  he  set  the  shoes  of  gold, 


OGIER    THE  DANE.  177 

And  o'er  his  shoulders  threw  the  mantle  fair, 
And  set  the  gold  crown  on  his  golden  hair : 
Then  on  the  royal  chair  he  sat  him  down, 
As  though  he  deemed  the  elders  of  the  town 
Should  come  to  audience ;  and  in  all  he  seemed 
To  do  these  things  e'en  as  a  man  who  dreamed. 

And  now  adown  the  Seine  the  golden  sun 
Shone  out,  as  toward  him  drew  that  lovely  one 
And  took  from  off  his  head  the  royal  crown, 
And,  smiling,  on  the  pillow  laid  it  down 
And  said,  "  Lie  there,  0  crown  of  Charlemaine, 
Worn  by  a  mighty  man,  and  worn  in  vain, 
Because  he  died,  and  all  the  things  he  did 
Were  changed  before  his  face  by  earth  was  hid ; 
A  better  crown  I  have  for  my  love's  head, 
Whereby  he  yet  shall  live,  when  all  are  dead 
His  hand  has  helped."     Then  on  his  head  she  set 
The  wondrous  crown,  and  said,  "  Forget,  forget ! 
Forget  these  weary  things,  for  thou  hast  much 
Of  .happiness  to  think  of." 

At  that  touch 

He  rose,  a  happy  light  gleamed  in  his  eyes ; 
And  smitten  by  the  rush  of  memories, 
He  stammered  out,  "  0  love  !  how  came  we  here  ? 
What  do  we  in  this  land  of  Death  and  Fear  ? 
Have  I  not  been  from  thee  a  weary  while  ? 
Let  us  return  —  I  dreamed  about  the  isle ; 
I  dreamed  of  other  years  of  strife  and  pain, 
Of  new  years  full  of  struggles  long  and  vain." 

She  took  him  by  the  hand  and  said,  "  Come,  love, 
I  am  not  changed ; "  and  therewith  did  they  move 
Unto  the  door,  and  through  the  sleeping  place 
Swiftly  they  went,  and  still  was  Ogier's  face 
Turned  on  her  beauty,  and  no  thought  was  his 
Except  the  dear  returning  of  his  bliss. 

But  at  the  threshold  of  the  palace-gate 
That  opened  to  them,  she  awhile  did  wait, 
And  turned  her  eyes  unto  the  rippling  Seine 
And  said,  "  0  love,  behold  it  once  again ! " 
He  turned,  and  gazed  upon  the  city  grey 
Smit  by  the  gold  of  that  sweet  morn  of  May ; 
He  heard  faint  noises  as  of  wakening  folk 


178  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

As  on  their  heads  his  day  of  glory  broke ; 

He  heard  the  changing  rush  of  the  swift  stream 

Against  the  bridge-piers.     All  was  grown  a  dream. 

His  work  was  over,  his  reward  was  come, 

Why  should  he  loiter  longer  from  his  home  ? 

A  little  while  she  watched  him  silently, 
Then  beckoned  him  to  follow  with  a  sigh, 
And,  raising  up  the  raiment  from  her  feet, 
Across  the  threshold  stepped  into  the  street ; 
One  moment  on  the  twain  the  low  sun  shone, 
And  then  the  place  was  void,  and  they  were  gone, 
How  I  know  not ;  but  this  I  know  indeed, 
That  in  whatso  great  trouble  or  sore  need 
The  land  of  France  since  that  fair  day  has  been, 
No  more  the  sword  of  Ogier  has  she  seen. 


THE  FOSTEKING  OF  ASLAUG.8* 

ARGUMENT. 

Aslaug,  the  daughter  of  Sigurd  who  slew  the  dragon,  and  of 
Brynhild  whom  he  loved,  lost  all  her  friends  and  kin,  and  was 
nourished  amid  great  misery ;  yet  in  the  end  her  fortune,  her 
glory,  and  her  beauty  prevailed,  and  she  came  to  mighty  estate. 

A  FAIR  tale  might  I  tell  to  you 

Of  Sigurd,  who  the  dragon  slew 

Upon  the  murder- wasted  heath, 

And  how  love  led  him  unto  death, 

Through  strange  wild  ways  of  joy  and  pain; 

Then  such  a  story  should  ye  gain, 

If  I  could  tell  it  all  aright, 

As  well  might  win  you  some  delight 

From  out  the  woefullest  of  days ; 

But  now  have  I  no  heart  to  raise 

That  mighty  sorrow  laid  asleep, 

That  love  so  sweet,  so  strong  and  deep, 

That  as  ye  hear  the  wonder  told 

In  those  few  strenuous  words  of  old, 

The  whole  world  seems  to  rend  apart 


THE  FOSTERING   OF  ASLAUG.  179 

When  heart  is  torn  away  from  heart. 
But  the  world  lives  still,  and  to-day 
The  green  Rhine  wendeth  on  its  way 
Over  the  unseen  golden  curse 
That  drew  its  lords  to  worse  and  worse, 
Till  that  last  dawn  in  Atli's  hall, 
When  the  red  flame  flared  over  all, 
Lighting  the  leaden,  sunless  sea. 

Yet  so  much  told  of  this  must  be, 
That  Sigurd,  while  his  youth  was  bright 
And  unstained,  midst  the  first  delight 
Of  Brynhild's  love  —  that  him  did  gain 
All  joy,  all  woe,  and  very  bane  — 
Begat  on  her  a  woman-child. 
In  hope  she  bore  the  maid,  and  smiled 
When  of  its  father's  face  she  thought ; 
But  when  sad  time  the  change  had  brought, 
And  she  to  Gunnar's  house  must  go, 
She,  thinking  how  she  might  bestow 
The  memory  of  that  lovely  eve, 
That  morn  o'er-sweet,  the  child  did  leave 
With  Heimir,  her  old  foster-sire, 
A  mighty  lord ;  then,  with  the  fire 
Of  her  old  love  still  smouldering, 
And  brooding  over  many  a  thing, 
She  went  unto  her  life  and  death. 
Nought,  as  I  said,  the  story  saith 
Of  all  the  wrong  and  love  that  led 
Her  feet  astray  :  together  dead 
They  lie  now  on  their  funeral  pile, 
And  now  the  little  one  doth  smile 
Upon  the  glittering  war-array 
Of  the  men  come  the  sooth  to  say 
To  Heimir  of  that  bitter  end. 

Silent  he  stared  till  these  did  wend 
Into  the  hall  to  fire  and  board, 
Then  by  the  porch  without  a  word 
Long  time  he  sat :  then  he  arose 
And  drew  his  sword,  and  hard  and  close 
Gazed  on  the  thin-worn  edge,  and  said : 
"  Smooth  cheeks,  sweet  hands,  and  art  thou  dead  ? 


180  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

0  me  thy  glory  !     Woe  is  me ! 

1  thought  once  more  thine  eyes  to  see  — 
Had  I  been  young  three  years  agone, 
When  thou  a  maiden  burd-alone, 
Hadst  eighteen  summers  ! " 

As  he  spake, 

He  gat  him  swiftly  to  the  brake 
Of  thorn-trees  nigh  his  house :  and  some, 
When  calm  once  more  he  sat  at  home, 
Deemed  he  had  wept :  but  no  word  more 
He  spake  thereof. 

A  few  days  wore, 
And  now  alone  he  oft  would  be 
Within  his  smithy ;  heedf ully 
He  guarded  it,  that  none  came  in ; 
Nor  marvelled  men  ;  "  For  he  doth  win 
Some  work  of  craftsmanship,"  said  they, 
"  And  such  before  on  many  a  day 
Hath  been  his  wont." 

So  it  went  on 

That  a  long  while  he  wrought  alone ; 
But  on  the  tenth  day  bore  in  there 
Aslaug,  the  little  maiden  fair, 
Three  winters  old  ;  and  then  the  thing 
A  little  set  folk  marvelling ; 
Yet  none  the  less  in  nought  durst  they 
To  watch  him.     So  to  end  of  day 
Time  drew,  and  still  unto  the  hall 
He  came  not,  and  a  dread  'gan  fall 
Upon  his  household,  lest  some  ill 
The  quiet  of  their  lives  should  kill ; 
And  so  it  fell  that  the  next  morn 
They  found  them  of  their  lord  forlorn, 
And  Aslaug  might  they  see  no  more  ; 
Wide  open  was  the  smithy  door, 
The  forge  a-cold,  and  hammering  tools 
Lay  on  the  floor,  with  woodwright's  rules, 
And  chips  and  shavings  of  hard  wood. 
Moreover,  when  they  deemed  it  good 
To  seek  for  him,  nought  might  they  do, 
The  tale  says,  for  so  dark  it  grew 
Over  all  ways,  that  no  man  might 
Know  the  green  meads  from  water  white. 


THE  FOSTERING   OF  ASLAUG.  181 

So  back  they  wended  sorrowfully, 
And  still  most  like  it  seemed  to  be, 
That  Odin  had  called  Heimir  home  ; 
And  nothing  strange  it  seemed  to  some 
That  with  him  the  sweet  youngling  was, 
Since  Brynhild's  love  might  bring  to  pass 
E'en  mightier  things  than  this,  they  said; 
And  sure  the  little  gold-curled  head, 
The  pledge  of  all  her  earthly  weal, 
In  Freyia's  house  she  longed  to  feel. 

Further  the  way  was  than  they  deemed 
Unto  that  rest  whereof  they  dreamed 
Both  to  the  greybeard  and  the  child ; 
For  now  by  trodden  way  and  wild 
Goes  Heimir  long :  wide-faced  is  he, 
Thin-cheeked,  hook-nosed,  e'en  as  might  be 
An  ancient  erne ;  his  hair  falls  down 
From  'neath  a  wide  slouched  hat  of  brown, 
And  mingles  white  with  his  white  beard ; 
A  broad  brown  brand,  most  men  have  feared, 
Hangs  by  his  side,  and  at  his  back 
Is  slung  a  huge  harp,  that  doth  lack 
All  fairness  certes,  and  so  great 
It  is,  that  few  might  bear  its  weight ; 
Yea,  Heimir  even,  somewhat  slow 
Beneath  its  burden  walketh  now, 
And  looketh  round,  and  stayeth  soon. 

On  a  calm  sunny  afternoon, 
Within  a  cleared  space  of  a  wood, 
At  last  the  huge  old  warrior  stood 
And  peered  about  him  doubtfully  ; 
Who,  when  nought  living  he  might  see, 
But  mid  the  beech-boughs  high  aloft 
A  blue-winged  jay,  and  squirrel  soft, 
And  in  the  grass  a  watchful  hare, 
Unslung  his  harp  and  knelt  down  there 
Beside  it,  and  a  little  while 
Handled  the  hollow  with  a  smile 
Of  cunning,  and  behold,  the  thing 
Opened,  as  by  some  secret  spring, 
And  there  within  the  hollow  lay, 


182  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Clad  in  gold-fringed  well-wrought  array, 

Aslaug,  the  golden-headed  child, 

Asleep  and  rosy  ;  but  she  smiled 

As  Heimir's  brown  hand  drew  a-near, 

And  woke  up  free  from  any  fear, 

And  stretched  her  hands  out  towards  his  face. 

He  sat  him  down  in  the  green  place, 
With  kind  arms  round  the  little  one, 
Till,  fully  waked  now,  to  the  sun 
She  turned,  and  babbling,  'gainst  his  breast 
Her  dimpled  struggling  hands  she  pressed : 
His  old  lips  touched  those  eyes  of  hers, 
That  Sigurd's  hope  and  Brynhild's  tears 
Made  sad  e'en  in  her  life's  first  spring ; 
Then  sweet  her  chuckling  laugh  did  ring, 
As  down  amid  the  flowery  grass 
He  set  her,  and  beheld  her  pass 
From  flower  to  flower  in  utter  glee  ; 
Therewith  he  reached  out  thoughtfully, 
And  cast  his  arms  around  the  harp, 
That  at  the  first  most  strange  and  sharp 
Rang  through  the  still  day,  and  the  child 
Stopped,  startled  by  that  music  wild : 
But  then  a  change  came  o'er  the  strings, 
As,  tinkling  sweet,  of  merry  things 
They  seemed  to  tell,  and  to  and  fro 
Danced  Aslaug,  till  the  tune  did  grow 
Fuller  and  stronger,  sweeter  still, 
And  all  the  woodland  place  did  fill 
With  sound,  not  merry  now  nor  sad, 
But  sweet,  heart-raising,  as  it  had 
The  gathered  voice  of  that  fair  day 
Amidst  its  measured  strains ;  her  play 
Amid  the  flowers  grew  slower  now, 
And  sadder  did  the  music  grow, 
And  yet  still  sweeter :  and  with  that, 
Nigher  to  where  the  old  man  sat 
Aslaug  'gan  move,  until  at  last 
All  sound  from  the  strained  strings  there  passed 
As  into  each  other's  eyes  they  gazed ; 
Then,  sighing,  the  young  thing  he  raised, 
And  set  her  softly  on  his  knee, 
And  laid  her  round  cheek  pitifully 


THE  FOSTERING   OF  ASLAUG.  183 

Unto  his  own,  and  said : 

"Indeed, 

Of  such  as  I  shalt  thou  have  need, 
As  swift  the  troubled  days  wear  by, 
And  yet  I  know  full  certainly 
My  life  on  earth  shall  not  be  long : 
And  those  who  think  to  better  wrong 
By  working  wrong,  shall  seek  thee  wide 
To  slay  thee ;  yea,  belike  they  ride 
E'en  now  unto  my  once-loved  home. 
Well,  to  a  void  place  shall  they  come, 
And  I  for  thee  thus  much  have  wrought  — 
For  thee  and  Brynhild  —  yea,  and  nought 
I  deem  it  still  to  turn  my  face 
Each  morn  unto  some  unknown  place 
Like  a  poor  churl  —  for,  ah  !  who  knows 
Upon  what  wandering  wind  that  blows 
Drives  Brynhild's  spirit  through  the  air ; 
And  now  by  such  road  may  I  fare 
That  we  may  meet  ere  many  days." 

Again  the  youngling  did  he  raise 
Unto  his  face,  for  to  the  earth 
Had  she  slipped  down ;  her  babbling  mirth 
Had  mingled  with  his  low  deep  speech  ; 
But  now,  as  she  her  hand  did  reach 
Unto  his  beard,  nor  stinted  more 
Her  babble,  did  a  change  come  o'er 
His  face  ;  for  through  the  windless  day 
Afar  a  mighty  horn  did  bray  ; 
Then  from  beneath  his  cloak  he  drew 
A  golden  phial,  and  set  it  to 
Her  ruddy  lips  in  haste,  and  she 
Gazed  at  nim  awhile  fearfully, 
As  though  she  knew  he  was  afraid ; 
But  silently  the  child  he  laid 
In  the  harp's  hollow  place,  for  now 
Drowsy  and  drooping  did  she  grow 
'Neath  the  strong  potion  ;  hastily 
He  shut  the  harp,  and  raised  it  high 
Upon  his  shoulder,  set  his  sword 
Keady  to  hand,  and  with  no  word 
Stalked  off  along  the  forest  glade  j 


184  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

But  muttered  presently : 

"Afraid 

Is  a  strange  word  for  me  to  say ; 
But  all  is  changed  in  a  short  day, 
And  full  of  death  the  world  seems  grown. 
Mayhap  I  shall  be  left  alone 
When  all  are  dead  beside,  to  dream 
Of  happy  life  that  once  did  seem 
So  stirring  'midst  the  folk  I  loved. 
Ah !  is  there  nought  that  may  be  moved 
By  strong  desire  ?  yea,  nought  that  rules 
The  very  gods  who  thrust  earth's  fools, 
This  way  and  that  as  foolishly, 
For  aught  I  know  thereof,  as  I 
Deal  with  the  chess  when  I  am  drunk  ?  " 

His  head  upon  his  breast  was  sunk 
For  a  long  space,  and  then  again 
He  spake  :  "  My  life  is  on  the  wane  ; 
Somewhat  of  this  I  yet  may  learn 
Ere  long ;  yet  I  am  fain  to  earn 
My  rest  by  reaching  Atli's  land ; 
For  surely  'neath  his  mighty  hand 
Safe  from  the  Niblungs  shall  she  be, 
Safe  from  the  forge  of  misery, 
Grimhild  the  Wise-wife." 

As  a  goad 

That  name  was  to  him  ;  on  he  strode 
Still  swifter,  silent.     But  day  wore 
As  fast  between  the  tree-stems  hoar 
He  went  his  ways ;  belike  it  was 
That  he  scarce  knew  if  he  did  pass 
O'er  rough  or  smooth,  by  dark  or  light, 
Until  at  last  the  very  night 
Had  closed  round  him  as  thinner  grew 
The  wood  that  he  was  hurrying  through ; 
And  as  he  gained  a  grey  hill's  brow 
He  felt  the  sea-breeze  meet  him  now, 
And  heard  the  low  surf's  measured  beat 
Upon  the  beach.     He  stayed  his  feet, 
And  through  the  dusky  gathering  dark 
Peered  round  and  saw  what  seemed  a  spark 
Along  the  hill's  ridge ;  thitherward 


THE  FOSTERING   OF  ASLAUG.  185 

He  turned,  still  warily  on  guard, 
Until  he  came  unto  the  door 
Of  some  stead,  lone  belike  and  poor : 
There  knocking,  was  he  bidden  in, 
And  heedfully  he  raised  the  pin, 
And  entering  stood  with  blinking  gaze 
Before  a  fire's  unsteady  blaze. 

There  sat  a  woman  all  alone 
Whom  some  ten  years  would  make  a  crone, 
Yet  would  they  little  worsen  her ; 
Her  face  was  sorely  pinched  with  care, 
Sour  and  thin-lipped  she  was ;  of  hue 
E'en  like  a  duck's  foot ;  whitish  blue 
Her  eyes  were,  seeming  as  they  kept 
Wide  open  even  when  she  slept. 

She  rose  up,  and  was  no  less  great 
Than  a  tall  man,  a  thing  of  weight 
Was  the  gaunt  hand  that  held  a  torch 
As  Heimir,  midmost  of  the  porch, 
Fixed  his  deep  grey  and  solemn  eyes 
Upon  that  wretched  wife's  surprise. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  "  what  may  be  your  will  ? 
Little  we  have  your  sack  to  fill, 
If  on  thieves'  errand  ye  are  come  ; 
But  since  the  goodman  is  from  home 
I  know  of  none  shall  say  you  nay 
If  ye  have  will  to  bear  away 
The  goodwife." 

As  on  a  burned  house 
Grown  cold,  the  moon  shines  dolorous 
From  out  the  rainy  lift,  so  now 
A  laugh  must  crease  her  lip  and  brow. 

"  I  am  no  thief,  goodwife,"  he  said, 
"  But  ask  wherein  to  lay  my  head 
To-night." 

"Well,  goodman,  sit,  "  said  she: 
"  Thine  ugly  box  of  minstrelsy 
With  thine  attire  befits  not  ill ; 
And  both  belike  may  match  thy  skill." 


186  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

So  by  the  fire  he  sat  him  down, 
And  she  too  sat,  and  coarse  and  brown 
The  thread  was  that  her  rock  gave  forth 
As  there  she  spun  ;  of  little  worth 
Was  all  the  gear  that  hall  did  hold. 

Now  Heimir  new-come  from  the  cold 
Had  set  his  harp  down  by  his  side, 
And,  turning  his  grey  eyes  and  wide 
Away  from  hers,  slouched  down  his  hat 
Yet  farther  o'er  his  brows,  and  sat 
With  hands  outstretched  unto  the  flame. 
But  had  he  noted  how  there  came 
A  twinkle  into  her  dead  eyes, 
He  had  been  minded  to  arise, 
Methinks ;  for  better  company 
The  wild-wood  wolf  had  been  than  she 
Because,  from  out  the  hodden  grey 
That  was  the  great  man's  poor  array, 
Once  and  again  could  she  behold 
How  that  the  gleam  of  ruddy  gold 
Came  forth :  so  therewith  she  arose, 
And,  wandering  round  the  hall,  drew  close 
Unto  the  great  harp,  and  could  see 
Some  fringe  of  golden  bravery 
Hanging  therefrom. —  And  the  man  too, 
In  spite  of  patch  and  clouted  shoe, 
And  unadorned  sword,  seemed  indeed 
Scarce  less  than  a  great  king  in  need, 
So  wholly  noble  was  his  mien. 

So,  with  these  things  thus  thought  and  seen, 
Within  her  mind  grew  fell  intent 
As  to  and  fro  the  hall  she  went, 
And  from  the  ark  at  last  did  take 
Meal  forth  for  porridge  and  for  cake, 
And  to  the  fire  she  turned,  and  'gan 
To  look  still  closer  on  the  man 
As  with  the  girdle  and  the  pot 
She  busied  her,  and  doubted  not 
That  on  his  arm  a  gold  ring  was  ; 
For  presently,  as  she  did  pass, 
Somewhat  she  brushed  the  cloak  from  him, 
And  saw  the  gold  gleam  nowise  dim. 
Then  sure,  if  man  might  shape  his  fate, 


THE  FOSTERING  OF  ASLAUG.  187 

Her  greed  impatient  and  dull  hate 
Within  her  eyes  he  might  have  seen, 
And  so  this  tale  have  never  been. 
But  nought  he  heeded  ;  far  away 
His  thoughts  were. 

Therewith  did  she  lay 
The  meal  upon  the  board,  and  said, 
"  Meseems  ye  would  be  well  apaid 
Of  meat  and  drink,  and  it  is  here, 
Fair  lord  —  though  somewhat  sorry  cheer : 
Fall  to  now." 

Whining,  with  a  grin 
She  watched,  as  one  who  sets  a  gin, 
If  at  the  name  of  lord  at  all 
He  started,  but  no  speech  did  fall 
From  his  old  lips,  and  wearily 
He  gat  to  meat,  and  she  stood  by, 
And  poured  the  drink  to  him,  and  said : 

"  To  such  a  husband  am  I  wed 
That  ill  is  speech  with  him,  when  he 
Comes  home  foredone  with  drudgery ; 
And  though  indeed  I  deem  thee  one 
Who  deeds  of  fame  full  oft  hath  done 
And  would  not  fear  him,  yet  most  ill 
'T  would  be  the  bliss  of  us  to  spill 
In  brawl  with  him,  as  might  betide 
If  thou  his  coming  shouldst  abide. 
Our  barley  barn  is  close  hereby, 
Wherein  a  weary  man  might  lie 
And  be  no  worse  at  dawn  of  day." 

"  Well,  goodwife,"  said  he,  "lead  the  way ! 
Worse  lodging  have  I  had  than  that, 
Where  the  wolf  howled  unto  the  bat, 
And  red  the  woodland  stream  did  run." 


She  started  back,  he  seemed  as  one 
Who  might  have  come  back  from  the  dead, 
To  wreak  upon  her  evil  head 
Her  sour  ill  life  ;  but  not  the  more 


188  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

He  heeded  her:  "  Go  on  before," 

He  said,  "  for  I  am  in  no  case 

To-night  to  meet  an  angry  face 

And  hold  my  hand  from  my  good  sword." 

So  out  she  passed  without  a  word, 
Though  when  he  took  in  careful  wise 
The  heavy  harp,  with  greedy  eyes 
And  an  ill  scowl  she  gazed  thereon, 
Yet  durst  say  nought.     But  soon  they  won 
Unto  the  barn's  door  —  he  turned  round, 
And,  gazing  down  the  rugged  ground, 
Beheld  the  sea  wide  reaching,  white 
Beneath  the  new-risen  moon,  and  bright 
His  face  waxed  for  a  little  while. 
And  on  the  still  night  did  he  smile, 
As  into  the  dark  place  he  went,  — 
And  saw  no  more  of  the  grey  bent, 
Or  sea,  or  sky,  or  morrow's  sun. 
Unless  perchance  when  all  is  done, 
And  all  the  wrongs  the  gods  have  wrought 
Come  utterly  with  them  to  nought, 
New  heavens  and  the  earth  he  shall  behold, 
And  peaceful  folk,  and  days  of  gold, 
When  Baldur  is  come  back  again 
O'er  an  undying  world  to  reign. 

For  when  the  carl  came  home  that  night, 
In  every  ill  wise  that  she  might, 
She  egged  him  on  their  guest  to  slay 
As  sleeping  in  the  barn  he  lay ; 
And,  since  the  man  was  no  ill  mate 
For  her,  and  heedless  evil  fate 
Had  made  him  big  and  strong  enow, 
He  plucked  up  heart  to  strike  the  blow 
Though  but  a  coward  thief  he  was. 
So  at  the  grey  dawn  did  he  pass 
Unto  the  barn,  and  entered  there ; 
But  through  its  dusk  therewith  did  hear 
The  sound  of  harp-strings  tinkling  :  then, 
As  is  the  wont  of  such-like  men, 
Great  fear  of  ghosts  fell  on  his  heart ; 
Yet,  trembling  sore,  he  thrust  apart 


THE  FOSTERING   OF  ASLAUG.  189 

The  long  stems  of  the  barley-straw, 
And,  peering  round  about,  he  saw 
Heimir  asleep,  his  naked  brand 
Laid  o'er  his  knees,  but  his  right  hand 
Amid  the  harp-strings,  whence  there  came 
A  mournful  tinkling ;  and  some  name 
His  lips  seemed  muttering,  and  withal 
A  strange  sound  on  his  ears  did  fall 
As  of  a  young  child  murmuring  low 
The  muffled  sounds  of  passing  woe. 
Nought  dreadful  saw  he  ;  yet  the  hair 
'  Gan  bristle  on  his  head  with  fear, 
And  twice  was  he  at  point  to  turn 
His  bread  by  other  craft  to  earn ; 
But  in  the  end  prevailed  in  him 
His  raging  greed  'gainst  glimmerings  dim 
Of  awe  and  pity ;  which  but  wrought 
In  such  wise  in  him  that  he  thought 
How  good  it  were  if  all  were  done, 
And  day,  and  noise,  and  the  bright  sun 
Were  come  again  :  he  crept  along, 
Poising  a  spear,  thick  shafted,  strong, 
In  his  right  hand  ;  and  ever  fast 
His  heart  beat  as  the  floor  he  passed, 
And  o'er  his  shoulder  gazed  for  fear 
Once  and  again ;  he  raised  the  spear, 
As  Heimir's  hand  the  string  still  pressed, 
And  thrust  it  through  his  noble  breast, 
Then  turned  and  fled,  and  heard  behind 
A  sound  as  of  a  wildered  wind, 
Half  moan,  half  sigh ;  then  all  was  still. 
But  yet  such  fear  his  soul  did  fill 
That  he  stayed  not  until  he  came 
Into  the  hall,  and  cried  the  name 
Of  his  wife,  Grima,  in  high  voice. 

"  Ah  well,"  she  said,  "  what  needs  this  noise  ? 
Can  ye  not  see  me  here  ?  —  Well  then  ?  " 

"  Wife,"  said  he,  "  of  the  sons  of  men 
I  deem  him  not,  rather  belike 
Odin  it  was  that  I  did  strike." 


190  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

She  laughed  an  ill  laugh.     "  Well,"  she  said, 
"What  then,  if  only  he  be  dead  ?  " 

"  What  if  he  only  seemed  to  die  ?  " 
He  said,  "  and  when  night  draweth  nigh 
Shall  come  again  grown  twice  as  great, 
And  eat  where  yesternight  he  ate  ? 
For  certes,  wife,  that  harp  of  his, 
No  earthly  minstrelsy  it  is, 
Since  as  in  sleep  the  man  was  laid 
Of  its  own  self  a  tune  it  played  ; 
Yea,  yea,  and  in  a  man's  voice  cried ; 
Belike  a  troll  therein  doth  bide." 

"  An  ugly,  ill-made  minstrel's  tool," 
She  said ;  "  thou  blundering,  faint-heart  fool ! 
Some  wind  moaned  through  the  barn  belike, 
And  the  man's  hand  the  strings  did  strike." 

And  yet  she  shivered  as  she  spake, 
As  though  some  fear  her  heart  did  take, 
And  neither  durst  to  draw  anigh 
The  barn  until  the  sun  was  high. 
Then  in  they  went  together,  and  saw 
The  old  man  lying  in  the  straw, 
Scarce  otherwise  than  if  asleep, 
Though  in  his  heart  the  spear  lay  deep, 
And  round  about  the  floor  was  red. 
Then  Grima  went,  and  from  the  dead 
Stripped  off  the  gold  ring,  while  the  man 
Stood  still  apart ;  then  she  began 
To  touch  the  harp,  but  in  no  wise 
Might  open  it  to  reach  the  prize. 
Wherefore  she  bade  her  husband  bring 
Edge-tools  to  split  the  cursed  thing. 
He  brought  them  trembling,  and  the  twain 
Fell  to,  and  soon  their  end  did  gain ; 
But  shrank  back  trembling  to  see  there 
The  youngling,  her  grey  eyes  and  clear 
Wide  open,  fearless  ;  but  the  wife 
Knew  too  much  of  her  own  sour  life 
To  fear  the  other  world  o'ermuch, 
And  soon  began  to  pull  and  touch 


THE  FOSTERING   OF  ASLAUG.  191 

The  golden  raiment  of  the  may ; 
And  at  the  last  took  heart  to  say : 

"  Be  comforted !  we  shall  not  die ; 
For  no  work  is  this  certainly 
Wrought  in  the  country  never  seen, 
But  raiment  of  a  Hunnish  queen  — 
Gold  seest  thou,  goodman !  gems  seest  thou !  — 
No  ill  work  hast  thou  wrought  I  trow. 
But,  for  the  maiden,  we  must  give 
Victuals  to  her  that  she  may  live ; 
For  though  to-day  she  is  indeed 
But  one  more  mouth  for  us  to  feed, 
Yet  as  she  waxeth  shall  she  do 
Eight  many  a  thing  to  help  us  two; 
Yea,  whatso  hardest  work  there  is, 
That  shall  be  hers  —  no  life  of  bliss 
Like  sewing  gold  mid  bower-mays ; 
She  shall  be  strong,  too,  as  the  days 
Increase  on  her." 

Then  said  the  man : 
"  Get  speech  from  her,  for  sure  she  can 
Tell  somewhat  of  her  life  and  state." 

Biit  whatso  he  or  his  vile  mate 
Might  do,  no  word  at  all  she  spake 
Either  for  threat  or  promise  sake ; 
Until  at  last  they  deemed  that  she 
Was  tongue-tied :  so  now  presently 
Unto  the  homestead  was  she  brought, 
And  her  array  all  golden-wrought 
Stripped  from  her,  and  in  rags  of  grey 
Clad  was  she.     But  from  light  of  day 
The  carl  hid  Heimir  dead,  and  all 
Into  dull  sodden  life  did  fall. 

So  with  the  twain  abode  the  may, 
Waxing  in  beauty  day  by  day 
But  ever  as  one  tongue-tied  was, 
What  thing  soever  came  to  pass ; 
And  needs  the  hag  must  call  her  Crow: 
"  A  name,"  she  said,  "  full  good  enow 
For  thee  —  my  mother  bore  it  erst." 


192  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

So  lived  the  child  that  she  was  nursed 

On  little  meat  and  plenteous  blows ; 

Yet  nowise  would  she  weep,  but  close 

Would  set  her  teeth  thereat,  and  go 

About  what  work  she  had  to  do, 

And  ever  wrought  most  sturdily ; 

Until  at  last  she  grew  to  be 

More  than  a  child.     And  now  the  place 

That  once  had  borne  so  dull  a  face 

Grew  well-nigh  bright  to  look  upon, 

And  whatso  thing  might  shine  there  shone ; 

Yea,  all  but  her  who  brought  about 

That  change  therein  —  for,  past  all  doubt, 

Years  bettered  in  nowise  our  hag, 

And  ever  she  said  that  any  rag 

Was  good  enough  to  clothe  the  Crow. 

And  still  her  hate  did  grow  and  grow 

As  Aslaug  grew  to  womanhood ; 

Oft  would  she  sit  in  murderous  mood 

Long  hours,  with  hand  anigh  a  knife, 

As  Aslaug  slept,  all  hate  at  strife 

With  greed  within  her ;  yet  withal 

Something  like  fear  of  her  did  fall 

Upon  her  heart,  and  heavy  weighed 

That  awful  beauty,  that  oft  stayed 

Her  hand  from  closing  on  the  hilt, 

E'en  more  than  thought  of  good  things  spilt. 

Hard  words  and  blows  this  scarce  might  stay, 

For  like  the  minutes  of  the  day, 

Not  looked  for,  noted  not  when  gone, 

Were  all  such  things  unto  the  crone, 

And,  smitten  or  unsmitten,  still 

The  Crow  was  swift  to  work  her  will. 

In  spring-tide  of  her  seventeenth  year, 
On  the  hill-side  the  house  anear 
Went  Aslaug,  following  up  her  goats: 
On  such  a  day  as  when  Love  floats 
Through  the  soft  air  unseen,  to  touch 
Our  hearts  with  longings  overmuch 
Unshapen  into  hopes,  to  make 
All  things  seem  fairer  for  the  sake 
Of  that  which  cometh,  who  doth  bear 


THE  FOSTERING   OF  ASLAUG.  193 

Who  knows  how  much  of  grief  and  fear 

In  his  fair  arms.     So  Aslaug  went, 

On  vague  and  unnamed  thoughts  intent, 

That  seemed  to  her  full  sweet  enow, 

And  ever  greater  hope  did  grow, 

And  sweet  seemed  life  to  her  and  good, 

Small  reason  why :  into  the  wood 

She  turned,  and  wandered  slim  and  fair 

'Twixt  the  dark  tree-boles :  strange  and  rare 

The  sight  was  of  her  golden  head, 

So  good,  uncoifed,  unchapleted, 

Above  her  sordid  dark  array, 

That  over  her  fair  body  lay 

As  dark  clouds  on  a  lilied  hill. 

The  wild  things  well  might  gaze  their  fill, 

As  through  the  wind-flowers  brushed  her  feet, 

As  her  lips  smiled  when  those  did  meet 

The  lush  cold  blue-bells,  or  were  set 

Light  on  the  pale  dog-violet 

Late  April  bears  :  the  red-throat  jay 

Screamed  not  for  nought,  as  on  her  way 

She  went,  light-laughing  at  some  thought ; 

If  the  dove  moaned  't  was  not  for  nought, 

Since  she  was  gone  too  soon  from  him, 

And  e'en  the  sight  he  had  was  dim 

For  the  thick  budding  twigs.     At  last 

Into  an  open  space  she  passed, 

Nigh  filled  with  a  wide,  shallow  lake, 

Amidmost  which  the  fowl  did  take 

Their  pastime ;  o'er  the  firmer  grass, 

'Twixt  rushy  ooze,  swift  did  she  pass, 

Until  upon  a  bank  of  sand 

Close  to  the  water  did  she  stand, 

And  gazed  down  in  that  windless  place 

Upon  the  image  of  her  face, 

And  as  she  gazed  laughed  musically 

Once  and  again  ;  nor  heeded  she 

Her  straying  flock  :  her  voice,  that  none 

Had  heard  since  Heimir  was  undone 

Within  that  wretched  stead,  began 

Such  speech  as  well  had  made  a  man 

Forget  his  land  and  kin  to  make 

Those  sweet  lips  tremble  for  his  sake  : 


194  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

"  Spring  bringeth  love,"  she  said,  "  to  all." 
She  sighed  as  those  sweet  sounds  did  fall 
From  her  unkissed  lips :  "  Ah,"  said  she, 
"  How  canie  that  sweet  word  unto  me, 
Among  such  wretched  folk  who  dwell; 
Folk  who  still  seem  to  carry  hell 
About  with  them  ?  —  That  ancient  man 
They  slew,  with  whom  my  life  began, 
I  deem  he  must  have  taught  me  that, 
And  how  the  steel-clad  maiden  sat 
Asleep  within  the  ring  of  flame, 
Asleep,  and  waiting  till  Love  came, 
Who  was  my  father :  many  a  dream 
I  dream  thereof,  till  it  doth  seem 
That  they  will  fetch  me  hence  one  day. 
Somewhere  I  deem  life  must  be  gay, 
The  flowers  are  wrought  not  for  the  sake 
Of  those  two  murderers." 

While  she  spake 

Her  hands  were  busy  with  her  gown, 
And  at  the  end  it  slipped  adown 
And  left  her  naked  there  and  white 
In  the  unshadowed  noontide  light. 
Like  Freyia  in  her  house  of  gold, 
Awhile  her  limbs  did  she  behold 
Clear  mirrored  in  the  lake  beneath ; 
Then  slowly,  with  a  shuddering  breath, 
Stepped  in  the  water  cold,  and  played 
Amid  the  ripple  that  she  made, 
And  spoke  again  aloud,  as  though 
The  lone  place  of  her  heart  might  know: 
"  Soothly,"  she  said,  "if  I  knew  fear, 
Scarcely  should  I  be  sporting  here, 
But  blinder  surely  has  the  crone 
In  those  last  months  of  winter  grown, 
Nor  knows  if  I  be  foul  or  sweet, 
Or  sharp  stripes  might  I  chance  to  meet, 
As  heretofore  it  hath  been  seen 
When  I  have  dared  to  make  me  clean 
Amid  their  foulness :  loathes  her  heart 
That  one  she  hates  should  have  a  part 
In  the  world's  joy.  —  Well,  time  wears  by 
I  was  not  made  for  misery. 


THE  FOSTERING  OF  ASLAUG.  195 

Surely  if  dimly  do  mine  eyes 
Behold  no  sordid  tale  arise, 
No  ill  life  drawing  near  —  who  knows 
But  I  am  kept  for  greater  woes, 
Godlike  despair  that  makes  not  base, 
Though  like  a  stone  may  grow  the  face 
Because  of  it,  yea,  and  the  heart 
A  hard-wrought  treasure  set  apart 
For  the  world's  glory  ?  " 

Therewith  she 

Made  for  the  smooth  bank  leisurely, 
And,  naked  as  she  was,  did  pass 
Unto  the  warm  and  flowery  grass 
All  unashamed,  and  fearing  not 
For  ought  that  should  draw  nigh  the  spot : 
And  soothly  had  some  hunter  been 
Near  by  and  all  her  beauty  seen, 
He  would  have  deemed  he  saw  a  fay 
And  hastened  trembling  on  his  way. 
But  when  full  joyance  she  had  had 
Of  sun  and  flowers,  her  limbs  she  clad 
In  no  long  time,  forsooth,  and  then 
Called  back  her  wandering  flock  again 
With  one  strange  dumb  cry,  e'en  as  though 
Their  hearts  and  minds  she  needs  must  know ; 
For  hurrying  back  with  many  a  bleat 
They  huddled  round  about  her  feet. 
And  back  she  went  unto  the  stead, 
Strange  visions  pressing  round  her  head, 
So  light  of  heart  and  limb,  that  though 
She  went  with  measured  steps  and  slow, 
Each  yard  seemed  but  a  dance  to  her. 

So  now  the  thick  wood  did  she  clear, 
And  o'er  the  bent  beheld  the  sea, 
And  stood  amazed  there  suddenly, 
For  a  long-ship,  with  shield-hung  rail, 
And  fair-stained  flapping  raven-sail, 
And  golden  dragon-stem,  there  lay 
On  balanced  oars  amidst  the  bay, 
Slow  heaving  with  the  unrippled  swell. 
With  a  strange  hope  she  might  not  tell 
Her  eyes  ran  down  the  strand,  and  there 


196  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Lay  beached  a  ship's  boat  painted  fair, 
And  on  the  shingle  by  her  side 
Three  blue-clad  axemen  did  abide 
Their  fellows,  sent  belike  ashore 
To  gather  victuals  for  their  store. 

She  looked  not  long ;  with  heart  that  beat 
More  quickly  and  with  hurrying  feet 
Unto  the  homestead  did  she  pass, 
And  when  anigh  the  door  she  was 
She  heard  men's  voices  deep  and  rough ; 
Then  the  shrill  crone,  who  said,  "  Enough 
Of  work  I  once  had  done  for  you, 
But  now  my  days  left  are  but  few 
And  I  am  weak ;  I  prithee  wait, 
Already  now  the  noon  is  late, 
My  daughter,  Crow,  shall  soon  be  here." 
"Nay,"  said  a  shipman,  "  have  no  fear, 
Goodwife,  a  speedy  death  to  get, 
Thou  art  a  sturdy  carline  yet : 
Howbeit  we  well  may  wait  awhile." 

Thereat  Aslaug,  with  a  strange  smile, 
Fresh  from  that  water  in  the  wood, 
Pushed  back  the  crazy  door,  and  stood 
Upon  the  threshold  silently ; 
Bareheaded  and  barefoot  was  she, 
And  scarce  her  rags  held  each  to  each, 
Yet  did  the  shipmen  stay  their  speech 
And  open-mouthed  upon  her  stare, 
As  with  bright  eyes  and  face  flushed  fair 
She  stood ;  one  gleaming  lock  of  gold, 
Strayed  from  her  fair  head's  plaited  fold, 
Fell  far  below  her  girdlestead, 
And  round  about  her  shapely  head 
A  garland  of  dog-violet 
And  wind-flowers  meetly  had  she  set : 
They  deemed  it  little  scathe  indeed 
That  her  coarse  homespun  ragged  weed 
Fell  off  from  her  round  arms  and  lithe 
Laid  on  the  door-post,  that  a  withe 
Of  willows  was  her  only  belt ; 
And  each  as  he  gazed  at  her  felt  • 
As  some  gift  had  been  given  him. 


THE  FOSTERING  OF  ASLAUG.  197 

At  last  one  grumbled,  "Nowise  dim 
It  is  to  see,  good  wife,  that  this 
No  branch  of  thy  great  kinship  is." 

Grima  was  glaring  on  the  may, 
And  scarce  for  rage  found  words  to  say ; 
"  Yea,  soothly  is  she  of  our  kin : 
Sixty-five  winters  changeth  skin. 
And  whatsoever  she  may  be, 
Though  she  is  dumb  as  a  dead  tree, 
She  worketh  ever  double-tide. 
So,  masters,  ope  your  mealsacks  wide 
And  fall  to  work ;  enow  of  wood 
There  is,  I  trow." 

And  there  she  stood, 
Shaking  all  o'er,  and  when  the  may 
Brushed  past  her  going  on  her  way, 
From  off  the  board  a  knife  she  caught, 
And  well-nigh  had  it  in  her  thought 
To  end  it  all.     Small  heed  the  men 
Would  take  of  her,  forsooth ;  and  when 
They  turned  their  baking-work  to  speed, 
And  Aslaug  fell  the  meal  to  knead, 
He  was  the  happiest  of  them  all 
Unto  whose  portion  it  did  fall 
To  take  the  loaves  from  out  her  hand ; 
And  gaping  often  would  he  stand, 
And  ever  he  deemed  that  he  could  feel 
A  trembling  all  along  the  peel 
Whenas  she  touched  it  —  sooth  to  say, 
Such  bread  as  there  was  baked  that  day 
Was  never  seen :  such  as  it  was 
The  work  was  done,  and  they  did  pass 
Down  toward  the  ship,  and  as  they  went 
A  dull  place  seemed  the  thymy  bent, 
Gilded  by  sunset ;  the  fair  ship, 
That  soft  in  the  long  swell  did  dip 
Her  golden  dragon,  seemed  nought  worth, 
And  they  themselves,  all  void  of  mirth, 
Stammering  and  blundering  in  their  speech, 
Still  looking  back,  seemed  each  to  each 
Ill-shapen,  ugly,  rough  and  base 
As  might  be  found  in  any  place. 


198  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Well,  saith  the  tale,  and  when  the  bread 
Was  broken,  just  as  light  as  lead 
Men  found  the  same,  as  sweet  as  gall, 
Half  baked  and  sodden ;  one  and  all 
Men  gave  it  to  the  devil ;  at  last 
Unto  their  lord  the  story  passed, 
Who  called  for  them,  and  bade  them  say 
Why  they  had  wrought  in  such  a  way ; 
They  grinned  and  stammered,  till  said  one: 
"  We  did  just  e'en  as  must  be  done 
When  men  are  caught ;  had  it  been  thou 
A-cold  had  been  the  oven  now." 

"  Ye  deal  in  riddles,"  said  the  lord, 
"  Enough  brine  is  there  overboard 
To  fill  you  full  if  even  so 
Ye  needs  must  have  it." 

"  We  did  go," 

The  man  said,  "  to  a  house,  and  found 
That  lack  of  all  things  did  abound ; 
A  yellow-faced  and  blear-eyed  crone 
Was  in  the  sooty  hall  alone ; 
But  as  we  talked  with  her,  and  she 
Spake  to  us  ill  and  craftily, 
A  wondrous  scent  was  wafted  o'er 
The  space  about  the  open  door, 
And  all  the  birds  drew  near  to  sing, 
And  summer  pushed  on  into  spring, 
Until  there  stood  before  our  eyes 
A  damsel  clad  in  wretched  guise, 
Yet  surely  of  the  gods  I  deem, 
So  fair  she  was ;  — well  then  this  dream 
Of  Freyia  on  midsummer  night, 
This  breathing  love,  this  once-seen  sight, 
Flitted  amidst  us  kneading  meal, 
And  from  us  all  the  wits  did  steal ;  — 
Hadst  thou  been  wise  ?  " 

"Well,"  said  the  lord, 
"  This  seemeth  but  an  idle  word ; 
Yet  since  ye  all  are  in  one  tale 
Somewhat  to  you  it  may  avail  — 
Speak  out !  my  lady  that  is  dead  — 


THE  FOSTERING   OF  ASLAUG.  199 

Thora,  the  chief  of  goodlihead  — 
Came  this  one  nigh  to  her  at  all  ?  " 

One  answer  from  their  mouths  did  fall, 
That  she  was  fairest  ever  seen. 
"  If  two  such  marvellous  things  have  been 
Wrought  by  the  gods,  then  have  they  wrought 
Exceeding  well,"  the  lord  said ;  "  nought 
Will  serve  me  now  but  to  have  sight 
Of  her,  and  hear  the  fresh  delight 
Of  her  sweet  voice." 

"  Nay,  nay,"  one  cried, 
"  The  carline  called  the  maid  tongue-tied 
E'en  from  her  birth." 

But  thoughtfully 

The  lord  spake :  "  Then  belike  shall  be 
Some  wonder  in  the  thing.     Lo  now, 
Since  I,  by  reason  of  my  vow 
Made  on  the  cup  at  Yule,  no  more 
May  set  foot  upon  any  shore 
Till  I  in  Micklegarth  have  been, 
And  somewhat  there  of  arms  have  seen, 
Go  ye  at  earliest  morn  and  say 
That  I  would  see  her  ere  the  day 
Is  quite  gone  by ;  here  shall  she  come 
And  go  as  if  her  father's  home 
The  good  ship  were,  and  I  indeed 
Her  very  brother.     Odin  speed 
The  matter  in  some  better  wise, 
Unless  your  words  be  nought  but  lies ! }t 

So  the  next  morn  she  had  the  word 
To  come  unto  their  king  and  lord ; 
She  answered  not,  but  made  as  though 
Their  meaning  she  did  fully  know, 
And  gave  assent :  the  crone  was  there, 
And  still  askance  at  her  did  glare, 
And  midst  her  hatred  grew  afeard 
Of  what  might  come,  but  spoke  no  word ; 
And  ye  may  well  believe  indeed 
That  those  men  gave  her  little  heed, 
But  stared  at  Aslaug  as  she  stood 
Beside  the  greasy,  blackened  wood 


200  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Of  the  hall's  uprights,  fairer  grown 

Than  yesterday,  soft  'neath  her  gown 

Her  fair  breast  heaving,  her  wide  eyes 

Mid  dreams  of  far-off  things  grown  wise, 

The  rock  dropped  down  in  her  left  hand ;  — 

There  mazed  awhile  the  men  did  stand, 

Then  gat  them  back.     And  so  the  sun 

Waxed  hot  and  waned,  and,  day  nigh  done, 

Gleamed  on  the  ship's  side  as  she  lay 

Close  in  at  deepest  of  the  bay, 

Her  bridge  gold-hung  on  either  hand 

Cast  out  upon  the  hard  white  sand ; 

While  o'er  the  bulwarks  many  a  man 

Gazed  forth ;  and  the  great  lord  began 

To  fret  and  fume,  till  on  the  brow 

Of  the  low  cliff  they  saw  her  now, 

Who  stood  a  moment  to  behold 

The  ship's  sun-litten  flashing  gold ; 

Then  slowly  'gan  to  get  her  down 

A  steep  path  in  the  sea-cliff  brown, 

Till  on  a  sudden  did  she  meet 

The  slant  sun  cast  about  its  feet, 

And  flashed  as  in  a  golden  cloud ; 

Since  scarcely  her  poor  raiment  showed 

Beneath  the  glory  of  her  hair, 

Whose  last  lock  touched  her  ankles  bare. 

For  so  it  was  that  as  she  went 
Unto  this  meeting,  all  intent 
Upon  the  time  that  was  to  be, 
While  yet  just  hidden  from  the  sea, 
She  stayed  her  feet  a  little  while, 
And,  gazing  on  her  raiment  vile, 
Flushed  red,  and  muttered,  — 

"  Who  can  tell 

But  I  may  love  this  great  lord  well  ? 
An  evil  thing  then  should  it  be 
If  he  cast  loathing  eyes  on  me 
This  first  time  for  my  vile  attire." 

Then,  while  her  cheek  still  burned  like  fire, 
She  set  hand  to  her  hair  of  gold 
Until  its  many  ripples  rolled 


THE  FOSTERING   OF  ASLAUQ.  201 

All  over  her,  and  no  great  queen 
Was  e'er  more  gloriously  beseen ; 
And  thus  she  went  upon  her  way. 

Now  when  the  crew  beheld  the  may 
Set  foot  upon  the  sand  there  rose 
A  mighty  shout  from  midst  of  those 
Bough  seafarers ;  only  the  lord 
Stood  silent  gazing  overboard 
With  great  eyes,  till  the  bridge  she  gained, 
And  still  the  colour  waxed  and  waned 
Within  his  face ;  but  when  her  foot 
First  pressed  the  plank,  to  his  heart's  root 
Sweet  pain  there  pierced,  for  her  great  eyes 
Were  fixed  on  his  in  earnest  wise, 
E'en  as  her  thoughts  were  all  of  him ; 
And  somewhat  now  all  things  waxed  dim, 
As  unto  her  he  stretched  his  hand, 
And  felt  hers ;  and  the  twain  did  stand 
Hearkening  each  other's  eager  breath. 
But  she  was  changed,  for  pale  as  death 
She  was  now  as  she  heard  his  voice. 

"Full  well  may  we  this  eve  rejoice, 
Fair  maid,  that  thou  hast  come  to  us  ; 
That  this  grey  shore  and  dolorous 
Holds  greater  beauty  than  the  earth 
Mid  fairer  days  may  bring  to  birth, 
And  that  I  hold  it  now.     But  come 
Unto  the  wind-blown  woven  home, 
Where  I  have  dwelt  alone  awhile, 
And  with  thy  speech  the  hours  beguile." 

For  nothing  he  remembered 
Of  what  his  men  unto  him  said, 
That  she  was  dumb.     Not  once  she  turned 
Her  eyes  from  his ;  the  low  sun  burned 
Within  her  waving  hair,  as  she 
Unto  the  poop  went  silently 
Beside  him,  and  with  faltering  feet, 
Because  this  hour  seemed  over  sweet, 
And  still  his  right  hand  held  her  hand. 


202  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

But  when  at  last  the  twain  did  stand 
Beneath  the  gold-hung  tilt  alone, 
He  said,  "  Thou  seemest  such  an  one 
As  who  could  love ;  thou  look'st  on  me 
As  though  thou  hopedst  love  might  be 
Betwixt  us  —  thou  art  pale,  my  sweet, 
Good  were  it  if  our  lips  should  meet." 

Then  mouth  to  mouth  long  time  they  stood 
And  when  they  sundered  the  red  blood 
Burnt  in  her  cheek,  and  tenderly- 
Trembled  her  lips,  and  drew  anigh 
His  lips  again :  but  speech  did  break 
Swiftly  from  out  them,  and  she  spake : 
"  May  it  be  so,  fair  man,  that  thou 
Art  even  no  less  happy  now 
Than  I  am." 

With  a  joyous  cry 
He  caught  her  to  him  hastily; 
And  mid  that  kiss  the  sun  went  down, 
And  colder  was  the  dark  world  grown. 
Once  more  they  parted ;  "  Ah,  my  love," 
He  said,  "  I  knew  not  ought  could  move 
My  heart  to  such  joy  as  thy  speech." 

She  made  as  if  she  fain  would  reach 
Her  lips  to  his  once  more ;  but  ere 
They  touched,  as  smitten  by  new  fear, 
She  drew  aback  and  said :  "  Alas  ! 
It  darkens,  and  I  needs  must  pass 
Back  to  the  land,  to  be  more  sad 
Than  if  this  joy  I  ne'er  had  had. 
And  thou  —  thou  shalt  be  sorry  too, 
And  pity  me  that  it  is  so." 

"  To-morrow  morn  comes  back  the  day/' 
He  said,  "  If  we  should  part,  sweet  may : 
Yet  why  should  I  be  left  forlorn 
Betwixt  this  even  and  the  morn  ?  " 

His  hand  had  swept  aback  her  hair, 
And  on  her  shoulder,  gleaming  bare 
From  midst  her  rags,  was  trembling  now ; 
But  she  drew  back,  and  o'er  her  brow 


THE  FOSTERING  OF  ASLAUG.  203 

Gathered  a  troubled  thoughtful  frown, 

And  on  the  bench  she  sat  her  down 

And  spake  :  "  Nay,  it  were  wise  to  bide 

Awhile.     Behold,  the  world  is  wide, 

Yet  have  we  found  each  other  here, 

And  each  to  other  seems  more  dear 

Than  all  the  world  else.  —  Yet  a  king 

Thou  art,  and  I  am  such  a  thing, 

By  some  half -dream  ed-of  chance  cast  forth 

To  live  a  life  of  little  worth, 

A  lonely  life  —  and  it  may  be 

That  thou  shouldst  weary  soon  of  me 

If  I  abode  here  now  —  and  I, 

How  know  I  ?    All  unhappily 

My  life  has  gone ;  scarce  a  kind  word 

Except  in  dreams  my  ears  have  heard 

But  those  thy  lovely  lips  have  said  : 

It  might  be  when  all  things  were  weighed 

That  I  too  light  of  soul  should  prove 

To  hold  for  ever  this  great  love." 

Down  at  her  feet  therewith  he  knelt, 
And  round  her  his  strong  arms  she  felt 
Drawing  her  to  him,  as  he  said  : 
"  These  are  strange  words  for  thee,  O  maid  j 
Are  those  sweet  loving  lips  grown  cold 
So  soon  ?    Yet  art  thou  in  my  hold, 
And  certainly  my  heart  is  hot. 
What  help  against  me  hast  thou  got  ?  " 

Each  unto  each  their  cheeks  were  laid, 
As  in  a  trembling  voice  she  said  : 
"  No  help,  because  so  dear  to  me 
Thou  art,  and  mighty  as  may  be  ; 
Thou  hast  seen  much,  art  wiser  far 
Than  I  am ;  yet  strange  thoughts  there  are 
In  my  mind  now  —  some  half -told  tale 
Stirs  in  me,  if  I  might  avail 
To  tell  it." 

Suddenly  she  rose, 

And  thrust  him  from  her  ;  "  Ah,  too  close ! 
Too  close  now,  and  too  far  apart 
To-morrow !  —  and  a  barren  heart, 


204  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

And  days  that  ever  fall  to  worse, 
And  blind  lives  struggling  with  a  curse 
They  cannot  grasp !     Look  on  my  face, 
Because  I  deem  me  of  a  race 
That  knoweth  such  a  tale  too  well 
Yet  if  there  be  such  tale  to  tell 
Of  us  twain,  let  it  e'en  be  so, 
Bather  than  we  should  fail  to  know 
This  love  —  ah  me,  my  love  forbear! 
No  pain  for  thee  and  me  I  fear ; 
Yet  strive  we  e'en  for  more  than  this ! 
Thou  who  hast  given  me  my  first  bliss 
To-day,  forgive  me,  that  in  turn 
I  see  the  pain  within  thee  burn, 
And  may  not  help  —  because  mine  eyes 
The  Gods  make  clear.     I  am  grown  wise 
With  gain  of  love,  and  hope  of  days 
That  many  a  coming  age  shall  praise." 

Awhile  he  gazed  on  her,  and  shook 
With  passion,  and  his  cloak's  hem  took 
With  both  hands  as  to  rend  it  down ; 
Yet  from  his  brow  soon  cleared  the  frown: 
He  said :  "  Yea,  such  an  one  thou  art, 
As  needs  alone  must  fill  my  heart 
If  I  be  like  my  father's  kin, 
And  have  a  hope  great  deeds  to  win ; 
And  surely  nought  shall  hinder  me 
From  living  a  great  life  with  thee  — 
Say  now  what  thou  wouldst  have  me  do." 

"  Some  deed  of  fame  thou  goest  to," 
She  said,  "  for  surely  thou  art  great ; 
Go  on  thy  way  then,  and  if  fate 
So  shapen  is,  that  thou  mayst  come 
Once  more  unto  this  lonely  home, 
There  shalt  thou  find  me,  who  will  live 
Through  whatso  days  that  fate  may  give, 
Till  on  some  happy  coming  day 
Thine  oars  again  make  white  the  bay." 

"  If  that  might  be  remembered  now," 
He  said,  "  Last  Yule  I  made  a  vow 


THE  FOSTERING  OF  ASLAUG.  205 

In  some  far  land  to  win  me  fame. 
Come  nigher,  sweet,  and  hear  my  name 
Before  thou  goest ;  that  if  so  be 
Death  take  me  and  my  love  from  thee, 
Thou  mayst  then  think  of  who  I  was, 
Nor  let  all  memory  of  me  pass 
When  thou  to  some  great  king  art  wed : 
Then  shalt  thou  say,  '  Kagnar  is  dead, 
Who  was  the  son  of  Sigurd  Ring, 
Among  the  Danes  a  mighty  king. 
He  might  have  had  me  by  his  side,' 


Then  shalt  thou  say,  '  that  hour  he  died 
But  my  heart  failed  and  not  his  heart.' ' 


"  Nay,  make  it  not  too  hard  to  part," 
She  said,  when  once  again  their  lips 
Had  sundered ;  "  as  gold-bearing  ships 
Foundered  amidmost  of  the  sea, 
So  shall  the  loves  of  most  men  be, 
And  leave  no  trace  behind.     God  wot 
This  heart  of  mine  shall  hate  thee  not 
Whatso  befall ;  but  rather  bless 
Thee  and  this  hour  of  happiness ; 
And  if  this  tide  shall  come  again 
After  hard  longing  and  great  pain, 
How  sweet,  how  sweet !    0  love,  farewell, 
Lest  other  tale  there  be  to  tell : 
Yet  heed  this  now  lest  afterward 
It  seem  to  thee  a  thing  too  hard 
To  keep  thy  faith  to  such  as  me ; 
I  am  belike  what  thou  dost  see, 
A  goatherd  girl,  a  peasant  maid, 
Of  a  poor  wretched  crone  afraid, 
From  dawn  to  dusk ;  despite  of  dreams 
In  morning  tides,  and  misty  gleams 
Of  wondrous  stories,  deem  me  such 
As  I  have  said,  nor  overmuch 
Cast  thou  thy  love  upon  my  heart 
If  even  such  a  man  thou  art 
As  needs  must  wed  a  great  man's  child." 

He  stepped  aback  from  her  and  smiled, 
And,  stooping  'neath  the  lamp,  drew  forth 


206  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

From  a  great  chest  a  thing  of  worth — 

A  silken  sark  wrought  wondrously 

In  some  far  land  across  the  sea. 

"  One  thing  this  is  of  many  such 

That  I  were  fain  thy  skin  should  touch," 

He  said,  "  if  thou  wouldst  have  it  so." 

But  his  voice  faltered  and  sank  low, 

As  though  her  great  heart  he  'gan  fear. 

She  reached  her  fine  strong  hand  anear 

The  farfetched  thing ;  then  smiling  said : 

"  Strange  that  such  fair  things  can  be  made 

By  men  who  die ;  and  like  it  is 

Thou  think'st  me  worthy  of  all  bliss ; 

But  our  rough  hills  and  smoky  house 

Befit  not  ought  so  glorious, 

E'en  if  thou  come  again  to  me ; 

And  if  not,  greater  grief  to  see 

The  gifts  of  dead  love !  —  what  say  I, 

Our  crone  should  wear  these  certainly 

If  I  but  brought  them  unto  land." 

He  flushed  red,  and  his  strong  right  hand 
Fell  to  his  sword-hilt.     "  Nay,"  she  said, 
"  All  that  is  nought  if  rightly  weighed ; 
Hope  and  desire  shall  pass  the  days 
If  thou  come  back." 

Grave  was  her  face 

And  tremulous :  he  sighed ;  "  Then  take 
This  last  gift  only  for  my  sake." 
And  once  again  their  lips  did  touch 
And  cling  together.     "  0  many  such," 
She  said,  "  if  the  time  did  not  fail, 
And  my  heart  too :  of  what  avail 
Against  the  hand  of  fate  to  strive  ? 
Let  me  begin  my  life  to  live, 
As  it  must  be  a  weary  space." 

The  moon  smote  full  upon  her  face, 
As  on  a  trembling  sea,  as  now 
From  the  lamp-litten  gold  tilt  low 
She  stepped  into  the  fresher  air, 
He  with  her.     Slow  the  twain  did  fare 
Amidst  the  wondering  men,  till  they 


THE  FOSTERING   OF  ASLAUG.  207 

Had  reached  the  bridge ;  then  swift  away 
She  turned,  and  passed  the  gold-hung  rail, 
And  o'er  the  sands  the  moon  made  pale 
Went  gleaming,  all  alone :  and  he 
Watched  till  her  light  feet  steadily 
Stepped  up  upon  the  dark  cliff's  brow: 
But  no  one  time  she  turned  her  now, 
But  vanished  from  him  into  night. 
So  there  he  watched  till  changing  light 
Brought  the  beginning  of  the  tide 
Of  longing  that  he  needs  must  bide ; 
Then  he  cried  out  for  oars  and  sail, 
And  ere  the  morning  star  did  fail 
No  more  those  cliffs  his  bird  beheld, 
As  'neath  the  wind  the  broad  sail  swelled. 


But  for  the  maiden,  back  she  went 
Unto  the  stead,  and  her  intent 
She  changed  in  nought :  no  word  she  spake 
What  wrath  soe'er  on  her  might  break 
From  the  fell  crone,  on  whom  withal 
Still  heavier  did  that  strange  awe  fall ; 
As  well  might  be,  for  from  the  may 
Had  girlish  lightness  passed  away 
Into  a  sweet  grave  majesty, 
That  scarce  elsewhere  the  world  might  see. 


So  wore  the  spring,  and  summer  came 
And  went,  and  all  the  woods  did  flame 
With  autumn,  as  in  that  old  tide 
When  slowly  by  the  mirk  hill-side 
Went  Heimir  to  his  unseen  death : 
Then  came  the  first  frost's  windless  breath, 
The  steaming  sea,  the  world  all  white, 
And  glittering  morn  and  silent  night, 
As  when  the  little  one  first  felt 
The  world  a-cold ;  and  still  she  dwelt 
Unchanged  since  that  first  spark  of  love 
Wrought  the  great  change,  that  so  did  move 
Her  heart  to  perfect  loveliness. 
Nor  overmuch  did  the  days  press 


THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Upon  her  with  the  weary  waste 

Of  short  life,  that  too  quick  doth  haste 

When  joy  is  gained :  if  any  thought 

Thereof  unto  her  heart  was  brought, 

Bather  it  was,  "Ah,  overlong 

For  brooding  over  change  and  wrong 

When  that  shall  come !     Good  gain  to  me 

My  love's  eyes  one  more  time  to  see, 

To  feel  once  more  his  lips'  delight, 

And  die  with  the  short  summer  night, 

Not  shamed  nor  sorry !     But  if  I 

Must  bear  the  weight  of  misery 

In  the  after  days,  yet  even  then 

May  I  not  leave  to  unborn  men 

A  savour  of  sweet  things,  a  tale 

That  midst  all  woes  s"hall  yet  prevail 

To  make  the  world  seem  something  worth  ?  " 

So  passed  the  winter  of  the  North, 
And  once  again  was  come  the  spring ; 
Then  whiles  would  she  go  loitering 
Slow-footed,  and  with  hanging  head, 
Through  budding  break,  o'er  flowery  mead, 
With  blood  that  throbbed  full  quickly  now, 
If  o'er  the  flowers  her  feet  were  slow, 
And  bonds  about  her  seemed  to  be. 
Yet  wore  the  spring-tide  lingeringly 
Till  on  a  morn  of  latter  May, 
When  her  soft  sleep  had  passed  away, 
Nought  but  the  bright-billed  sweet-throat  bird 
Within  the  thorn  at  first  she  heard ; 
But,  even  as  her  heart  did  meet 
The  first  wave  of  desire  o'ersweet, 
The  winding  of  a  mighty  horn 
Adown  the  breeze  of  May  was  borne, 
And  throbbing  hope  on  her  did  fall : 
Yet  from  her  bed  she  leapt  withal, 
And  clad  herself,  and  went  about 
Her  work,  as  though  with  ne'er  a  doubt 
That  this  day  e'en  such  like  should  be 
As  was  the  last ;  and  so  while  she 
Quickened  the  fire  and  laid  the  board, 
Mid  the  crone's  angry,  peevish  word 


THE  FOSTERING   OF  ASLAUG.  209 

Of  surly  wonder,  the  goodman, 
With  axe  on  shoulder,  swiftly  ran 
Adown  the  slope ;  but  presently 
Came  breathless  back : 

"Ah,  here  they  be! 

Come  back  again  for  something  worse," 
Said  he.     "  This  dumb  maid  is  some  curse 
Laid  on  us." 

"  Well,"  the  goodwif e  said, 

"  Who  be  they  ?  "     "  They  who  baked  their  bread 
Within  this  house  last  spring,"  said  he. 
"  Oft  did  I  marvel  then  why  she, 
This  witch-maid,  went  unto  the  strand 
That  eve." 

"  Nay,  maybe  comes  to  hand 
Some  luck,"  the  crone  said.     "  Hold  thy  peace," 
He  said.     "  What  goodhap  or  increase 
From  that  ill  night  shall  ever  come  ? 
Eather  I  deem  that  now  come  home 
Those  fifteen  years  of  murder :  lo, 
The  worst  of  all  we  soon  shall  know, 
I  hear  their  voices." 

Silently, 

If  somewhat  pale,  Aslaug  passed  by 
From  fire  to  board,  as  though  she  heard 
And  noted  nothing  of  that  word, 
Whate'er  it  was :  yet  now,  indeed, 
The  clink  of  sword  on  iron  weed, 
And  voices  of  the  seafarers, 
Came  clear  enow  unto  her  ears ; 
Nor  was  it  long  or  e'er  the  door 
Was  darkened,  as  one  stood  before 
The  light  and  cried : 

"  Hail  to  this  house, 
If  here  still  dwells  the  glorious 
Fair  maiden,  that  across  the  seas 
We  come  for ! " 

Aslaug  on  her  knees 

Knelt  by  the  brightening  fire  and  dropped 
The  meal  into  the  pot,  nor  stopped 
For  all  their  words,  but  with  her  hand 
Screened  her  fair  face.     Then  up  did  stand 
The  goodman,  quaking : 


210  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

"Well,"  he  said, 

"  Good  be  my  meed !  for  we  have  fed 
This  dumb  maid  all  for  kindness'  sake." 

"No  need,"  he  said,  "long  words  to  make, 
And  little  heed  we  thy  lies  now, 
But  if  she  doom  thee  to  the  bough. 
—  All  hail,  our  Lady  and  our  Queen  I " 

For  she,  arisen,  with  glorious  mien 
Was  drawing  near  the  board,  and  bare 
The  porridge-bowl  and  such-like  gear 
Past  where  the  men  stood ;  tremblingly 
The  leader  of  them  drew  anigh, 
And  would  have  taken  them,  but  she 
Swerved  from  his  strong  hand  daintily, 
Smiled  on  him  and  passed  by,  and  when 
They  were  set  down  turned  back  again 
And  spoke,  and  well  then  might  rejoice 
That  dusky  place  to  hear  her  voice 
For  the  first  time : 

"  I  doubt  me  not, 
0  seafarers,  but  ye  have  got 
A  message  from  that  goodly  lord 
Who  spake  last  year  a  pleasant  word, 
Hard  to  believe  for  a  poor  maid." 

Trembled  the  twain  at  what  she  said 
Less  than  the  unexpected  sound, 
For  death  seemed  in  the  air  around. 
But  the  man  spake :  "  E'en  thus  he  saith, 
That  he,  who  heretofore  feared  death 
In  nowise,  feared  this  morn  to  come 
And  seek  thee  out  in  thy  poor  home, 
Lest  he  should  find  thee  dead  or  gone ; 
For  scarce  he  deemed  so  sweet  a  one 
Could  be  for  him :  '  But  if  she  live,' 
He  said,  'and  still  her  love  can  give 
To  me,  let  her  make  no  delay, 
For  fear  we  see  no  other  day 
Wherein  to  love.' " 

She  said:  "Come,  then! 
It  shames  me  not  that  of  all  men 


THE  FOSTERING  OF  ASLAUG.  211 

I  love  him  best.     But  have  ye  there 
Somewhat  these  twain  might  reckon  dear  ? 
Their  life  is  ill  enow  to  live 
But  that  withal  they  needs  must  strive 
With  griping  want  when  I  am  gone." 

He  answered,  "  0  thou  goodly  one, 
Here  have  we  many  a  dear-bought  thing, 
Because  our  master  bade  us  bring 
All  queenly  gear  for  thee,  and  deems 
That  thou,  so  clad  as  well  beseems 
That  lovely  body,  wouldst  aboard ; 
But  all  we  have  is  at  thy  word 
To  keep  or  spend." 

"Nay,  friends,"  she  said, 
"  If  thy  lord  loves  my  goodlihead, 
Fain  would  I  bear  alone  to  him 
What  wealth  I  have  of  face  or  limb, 
For  him  to  deck  when  all  is  his, 
So  full  enow  shall  even  this 
That  I  am  dight  with  be  for  me ; 
But  since  indeed  of  his  bounty 
He  giveth  unto  me  to  give  — 
Take  ye  this  gold,  ye  twain,  and  live 
E'en  as  ye  may  —  small  need  to  bless 
Or  curse  your  sordid  churlishness, 
Because  methinks,  without  fresh  curse, 
Each  day  that  comes  shall  still  be  worse 
Than  the  past  day,  and  worst  of  all 
Your  ending  day  on  you  shall  fall. 
Yet,  if  it  may  be,  fare  ye  well, 
Since  in  your  house  I  came  to  dwell 
Some  wearing  of  my  early  days." 

E'en  as  she  spake,  her  glorious  face 
Shone  the  last  time  on  that  abode, 
And  her  light  feet  the  daisies  trod 
Outside  the  threshold.     But  the  twain 
Stood  mazed  above  the  bounteous  gain 
Of  rings  and  gems  and  money  bright, 
And  a  long  while,  for  mere  affright 
And  wonder,  durst  not  handle  it. 


212  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

But  while  the  butterfly  did  flit 
White  round  about  the  feet  of  her, 
Above  the  little  May-flowers  fair, 
She  went  adown  the  hill  with  these, 
Until  the  low  wash  of  the  seas 
They  heard,  and  murmuring  of  the  men 
Who  manned  the  long-ships ;  quickly  then 
They  showed  above  the  grey  bent's  brow, 
And  all  the  folk  beheld  them  now 
'Twixt  oar  and  gunwale  that  abode, 
And  to  the  sky  their  shout  rose  loud. 
But  when  upon  the  beach  she  came, 
A  bright  thing  in  the  sun  did  flame 
'Twixt  sun  and  ship-side,  and  the  sea 
Foamed,  as  one  waded  eagerly 
Unto  the  smooth  and  sea-beat  sand, 
And  for  one  moment  did  she  stand 
Breathless,  with  beating  heart,  and  then 
To  right  and  left  drew  back  the  men ; 
She  heard  a  voice  she  deemed  well  known, 
Long  waited  through  dull  hours  bygone, 
And  round  her  mighty  arms  were  cast : 
But  when  her  trembling  red  lips  passed 
From  out  the  heaven  of  that  dear  kiss, 
And  eyes  met  eyes,  she  saw  in  his 
Fresh  pride,  fresh  hope,  fresh  love,  and  saw 
The  long  sweet  days  still  onward  draw, 
Themselves  still  going  hand  in  hand, 
As  now  they  went  adown  the  strand. 


Next  mom,  when  they  awoke  to  see 
Each  other's  hands  draw  lovingly 
Each  unto  each,  awhile  they  lay 
Silent,  as  though  night  passed  away 
They  grudged  full  sore :  till  the  king  said 
Unto  the  happy  golden  head 
That  lay  upon  his  breast,  "  What  thought 
By  those  few  hours  of  dark  was  brought 
Unto  thy  heart,  my  love  ?     Did  dreams 
Make  strange  thy  loving  sleep  with  gleams 
Of  changing  days  that  yet  may  be  ?  " 


THE  FOSTERING   OF  ASLAUG.  213 

She  answered,  but  still  dreamily  : 
"  In  sleep  a  little  while  ago 
O'er  a  star-litten  world  of  snow 
I  fared,  till  suddenly  near  by 
A  swirling  fire  blazed  up  on  high ; 
Thereto  I  went,  and  without  scathe 
Passed  through  the  flame,  as  one  doth  bathe 
Within  a  summer  stream,  and  there 
I  saw  a  golden  palace  fair 
Kinged  round  about  with  roaring  flame. 
Unto  an  open  door  I  came, 
And  entered  a  great  hall  thereby, 
And  saw  where  'neath  a  canopy 
A  king  and  queen  there  sat,  more  fair 
Than  the  world  knoweth  otherwhere  : 
And  much  methought  my  heart  smiled  then 
Upon  that  goodliest  of  all  men, 
That  sweetest  of  all  womankind. 
Then  one  methought  a  horn  did  wind 
Without,  and  the  king  turned  and  spake : 


<"  Wherewith  do  the  hall  pillars  shake, 
0  queen,  Olove?' 

She  moved  her  head, 
And  in  a  voice  like  music  said : 
'  This  is  the  fame  of  Eagnar's  life, 
The  breath  of  all  the  glorious  strife 
Wherewith  his  days  shall  wear.' 

Then  he : 

'  What  is  the  shadow  that  I  see 
Adown  the  hall?' 

Then  said  the  queen : 
'  Our  daughter  surely  hadst  thou  seen 
If  thine  eyes  saw  as  clear  as  mine : 
Well  worth  she  is  our  love  divine, 
And  unto  Kagnar  is  she  wed, 
The  best  man  since  that  thou  art  dead, 
My  king,  my  love,  mine  own,  mine  own.' 


"  Then  the  twain  kissed  upon  the  throne, 
And  the  dream  passed  and  sleep  passed  too." 


214  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

Therewith  the  king  her  body  drew 
Nearer  to  him,  if  it  might  be, 
And  spake :  "  A  strange  dream  came  to  me. 
Upon  a  waste  at  dawn  I  went 
And  wandered  over  vale  and  bent, 
And  ever  was  it  dawn  of  day, 
And  still  upon  all  sides  there  lay 
The  bones  of  men,  and  war-gear  turned 
To  shards  and  rust ;  then  far  off  burned 
A  fire,  and  thither  quick  I  passed. 
And  when  I  came  to  it  at  last 
Dreadful  it  seemed,  impassable ; 
But  I,  fain  of  that  land  to  tell 
What  things  soever  might  be  known, 
Went  round  about,  and  up  and  down, 
And  gat  no  passing  by  the  same ; 
Until,  methought,  just  where  the  flame 
Burned  highest,  through  the  midst  I  saw 
A  man  and  woman  toward  me  draw, 
Even  as  through  a  flowery  wood : 
So  came  they  unto  where  I  stood, 
And  glad  at  heart  therewith  I  grew, 
For  such  fair  folk  as  were  the  two 
Ne'er  had  I  seen;  then  the  man  cried: 

"'Hail  to  thee,  Eagnar!  well  betide 
This  dawn  of  day.     Stretch  forth  thine  hand/ 

"  E'en  as  he  bade  me  did  I  stand, 
Abiding  what  should  hap,  but  he 
Turned  to  the  woman  lovingly, 
And  from  her  bosom's  fresh  delight 
Drew  forth  a  blooming  lily  white, 
And  set  it  in  mine  hand,  and  then 
Both  through  the  flame  went  back  again. 

"  Then  afterwards  in  earth  I  set 
This  lily,  and  with  soft  regret 
Watched  for  its  fading ;  but  withal 
Great  light  upon  the  world  did  fall, 
And  fair  the  sun  rose  o'er  the  earth, 
And  blithe  I  grew  and  full  of  mirth : 


THE  FOSTERING   OF  ASLAUG.  215 

And  no  more  on  a  waste  I  was, 

But  in  a  green  world,  where  the  grass 

White  lily-blooms  well-nigh  did  hide ; 

O'er  hill  and  valley  far  and  wide 

They  waved  in  the  warm  wind ;  the  sun 

Seemed  shining  upon  every  one, 

As  though  it  loved  it :  and  with  that 

I  woke,  and  up  in  bed  I  sat 

And  saw  thee  waking,  0  my  sweet ! " 

With  that  last  word  their  lips  did  meet, 
And  even  the  fresh  May  morning  bright 
Was  noted  not  in  their  delight. 

Let  be  —  as  ancient  stories  tell 
Full  knowledge  upon  Eagnar  fell 
In  lapse  of  time,  that  this  was  she 
Begot  in  the  felicity 
Swift-fleeting,  of  the  wondrous  twain, 
Who  afterwards  through  change  and  pain 
Must  live  apart  to  meet  in  death. 

But,  would  ye  know  what  the  tale  saith, 
In  the  Old  Danish  tongue  is  writ 
Full  many  a  word  concerning  it,  — 
The  days  through  which  these  lovers  passed, 
Till  death  made  end  of  all  at  last. 
But  so  great  Eagnar's  glory  seemed 
To  Northern  folk,  that  many  deemed 
That  for  his  death,  when  song  arose 
From  that  Northumbrian  Adder-close, 
England  no  due  atonement  paid 
Till  Harald  Godwinson  was  laid 
Beside  his  fallen  banner,  cold 
Upon  the  blood-soaked  Sussex  mould, 
And  o'er  the  wrack  of  Senlac  field 
Full-fed  the  grey-nebbed  raven  wheeled. 


SIGURD  THE  VOLSUNG.35 
(SELECTIONS.) 


SIGURD  THE  VOLSUNG. 


KEGIN. 

OP  THE  FORGING  OF  THE  SWORD  THAT  is  CALLED  THE 
WRATH  OF  SIGURD  .* 

Now  again  came  Sigurd  to  Regin,  and  said :  "  Thou  hast 

taught  me  a  task 
Whereof  none  knoweth  the  ending :  and  a  gift  at  thine 

hands  I  ask." 

Then  answered  Begin  the  Master :  "  The  world  must  be 

wide  indeed 
If  my  hand  may  not  reach  across  it  for  ought  thine  heart 

may  need." 

"  Yea  wide  is  the  world,"  said  Sigurd,  "  and  soon  spoken 

is  thy  word ; 
But  this  gift  thou  shalt  nought  gainsay  me:  for  I  bid 

thee  forge  me  a  sword." 

Then  spake  the  Master  of  Masters,  and  his  voice  was. 

sweet  and  soft, 
"Look  forth  abroad,  0  Sigurd,  and  note  in  the  heavens 

aloft 
How  the  dim  white  moon  of  the  daylight  hangs  round  as 

the  Goth-God's  shield: 
Now  for  thee  first  rang  mine  anvil  when  she  walked  the 

heavenly  field 

A  slim  and  lovely  lady,  and  the  old  moon  lay  on  her  arm : 
Lo,  here  is  a  sword  I  have  wrought  thee  with  many  a 

spell  and  charm 
And  all  the  craft  of  the  Dwarf -kind ;  be  glad  thereof  and 

sure; 

Mid  many  a  storm  of  battle  full  well  shall  it  endure." 
219 


220  SIGURD   THE    VOLSUNG. 

Then  Sigurd  looked  on  the  slayer,  and  never  a  word 

would  speak: 
Gemmed  were  the  hilts  and  golden,  and  the  blade  was 

blue  and  bleak, 
And  runes  of  the  Dwarf -kind's  cunning  each  side  the 

trench  were  scored: 
But  soft  and  sweet  spake  Begin :  "  How  likest  thou  the 

sword  ?  " 

Then    Sigurd   laughed    and    answered:    "The  work  is 

proved  by  the  deed; 
See  now  if  this  be  a  traitor  to  fail  me  in  my  need." 

Then  Kegin  trembled  and  shrank,  so  bright  his  eyes  out- 
shone 
As  he  turned  about  to  the  anvil,  and  smote  the  sword 

thereon ; 
But  the  shards  fell  shivering  earthward,  and   Sigurd's 

heart  grew  wroth 
As  the  steel-flakes  tinkled  about   him:   "Lo,  there  the 

right-hand's  troth ! 
Lo,  there  the  golden  glitter,  and  the  word  that  soon  is 

spilt." 

And  down  amongst  the  ashes  he  cast  the  glittering  hilt, 
And  turned  his  back  on  Eegin  and  strode  out  through 

the  door 
And  for  many  a  day  of  spring-tide  came  back  again  no 

more. 
But  at  last  he  came  to  the  stithy  and  again  took  up  the 

word: 
"  What  hast  thou  done,  O  Master,  in  the  forging  of  the 

sword?" 

Then  sweetly  Kegin  answered:  "Hard  task-master  art 

thou, 

But  lo,  a  blade  of  battle  that  shall  surely  please  thee  now ! 
Two  moons  are  clean  departed  since  thou  lookedst  toward 

the  sky 

And  sawest  the  dim  white  circle  amid  the  cloud-flecks  lie ; 
And  night  and  day  have  I  laboured ;  and  the  cunning  of 

old  days 
Hath  surely  left  my  right-hand  if  this  sword  thou  shalt 

not  praise." 


REGIN.  221 

And  indeed  the  hilts  gleamed  glorious  with  many  a  dear- 
bought  stone, 

And  down  the  fallow  edges  the  light  of  battle  shone ; 
Yet  Sigurd's  eyes  shone  brighter,  nor  yet  might  Begin 

face 
Those  eyes  of  the  heart  of  the  Volsungs ;  but  trembled  in 

his  place 

As  Sigurd  cried :  "  0  Regin,  thy  kin  of  the  days  of  old 
Were  an  evil  and  treacherous  folk,  and  they  lied  and 

murdered  for  gold; 
And  now  if  thou  wouldst  bewray  me,  of  the  ancient 

curse  beware, 
And  set  thy  face  as  the  flint  the  bale  and  the  shame  to 

bear: 
For  he  that  would  win  to  the  heavens,  and  be  as  the  Gods 

on  high 
Must  tremble  nought  at  the  road,  and  the  place  where 

men-folk  die." 

White  leaps  the  blade  in  his  hand  and  gleams  in  the  gear 

of  the  wall, 
And  he  smites,  and  the  oft-smitten  edges  on  the  beaten 

anvil  fall : 
But  the  life  of  the  sword  departed,  and  dull  and  broken 

it  lay 
On  the  ashes  and  flaked-off  iron,  and  no  word  did  Sigurd 

say, 
But  strode  off  through  the  door  of  the  stithy  and  went  to 

the  Hall  of  Kings, 
And  was  merry  and  blithe  that  even  mid  all  imaginings. 

But  when  the  morrow  was  come  he  went  to  his  mother 

and  spake : 
"  The  shards,  the  shards  of  the  sword,  that  thou  gleanedst 

for  my  sake 
In  the  night  on  the  field  of  slaughter,  in  the  tide  when 

my  father  fell, 
Hast  thou  kept  them  through  sorrow  and  joyance  ?  hast 

thou  warded  them  trusty  and  well  ? 
Where  hast  thou  laid  them,  my  mother  ?  " 

Then  she  looked  upon  him  and  said : 
"  Art  thou  wroth,  0  Sigurd  my  son,  that  such  eyes  are  in 

thine  head  ? 


222  SIGURD   THE    VOLSUNG. 

And  wilt  thou  be  wroth  with  thy  mother  ?  do  I  withstand 
thee  at  all  ?  " 

"  Nay,"  said  he,  "  nought  am  I  wrathful,  but  the  days 

rise  up  like  a  wall 
Betwixt  my  soul  and  the  deeds,  and  I  strive  to  rend  them 

through. 
And  why  wilt  thou  fear  mine  eyen  ?  as  the  sword  lies 

baleful  and  blue 
E'en  'twixt  the  lips  of  lovers,  when  they  swear  their 

troth  thereon, 
So  keen  are  the  eyes  ye  have  fashioned,  ye  folk  of  the 

days  agone ; 
For  therein  is  the  light  of  battle,  though  whiles  it  lieth 


Now  give  me  the  sword,  my  mother,  that  Sigmund  gave 
thee  to  keep." 

She  said  :  "  I  shall  give  it  thee  gladly,  for  fain  shall  I  be 

of  thy  praise 
When  thou  knowest  my  careful  keeping  of  that  hope  of 

the  earlier  days." 

So  she  took  his  hand  in  her  hand,  and  they  went  their 

ways,  they  twain, 
Till  they  came  to  the  treasure  of  queen-folk,  the  guarded 

chamber  of  gain : 
They  were  all  alone  with  its  riches,  and  she  turned  the 

key  in  the  gold, 
And  lifted  the  sea-born  purple,  and    the    silken  web 

unrolled, 
And  lo,  'twixt  her  hands  and  her  bosom  the  shards  of 

Sigmund' s  sword ; 
No  rust-fleck  stained  its  edges,  and  the  gems  of  the 

ocean's  hoard 
Were  as  bright  in  the  hilts  and  glorious,  as  when  in  the 

Volsungs'  hall 
It  shone  in  the  eyes  of  the  earl-folk  and  flashed  from  the 

shielded  wall. 

But  Sigurd  smiled  upon  it,  and  he  said :  "  0  Mother  of 

Kings, 
Well  hast  thou  warded  the  war-glaive  for  a  mirror  of 

many  things, 


BEGIN.  223 

And  a  hope  of  much  fulfilment :  well  hast  thou  given  to 

me 
The  message  of  my  fathers,  and  the  word  of  things  to 

be: 

Trusty  hath  been  thy  warding,  but  its  hour  is  over  now : 
These  shards  shall  be  knit  together,  and  shall  hear  the 

war- wind  blow. 
They  shall  shine  through  the  rain  of  Odin,  at  the  sun 

come  back  to  the  world, 
When  the  heaviest  bolt  of  the  thunder  amidst  the  storm 

is  hurled : 
They  shall  shake  the  thrones  of  Kings,  and  shear  the 

walls  of  war, 

And  undo  the  knot  of  treason  when  the  world  is  darken- 
ing o'er. 
They  have  shone  in  the  dusk  and  the  night-tide,  they 

shall  shine  in  the  dawn  and  the  day  ; 
They  have  gathered  the  storm  together,  they  shall  chase 

the  clouds  away ; 
They  have  sheared  red  gold  asunder,  they  shall  gleam 

o'er  the  garnered  gold  ; 
They  have  ended  many  a  story,  they  shall  fashion  a  tale 

to  be  told : 
They  have  lived  in  the  wrack  of  the  people ;  they  shall 

live  in  the  glory  of  folk : 
They  have  stricken  the  Gods  in  battle,  for  the  Gods  shall 

they  strike  the  stroke." 

Then  she  felt  his  hands  about  her  as  he  took  the  fateful 

sword, 
And  he  kissed  her  soft  and  sweetly ;  but  she  answered 

never  a  word : 

So  great  and  fair  was  he  waxen,  so  glorious  was  his  face, 
So  young,  as  the  deathless  Gods  are,  that  long  in  the 

golden  place 
She  stood  when  he  was  departed :  as  some  for-travailed 

one 
Comes  over  the  dark  fell-ridges  on  the  birth-tide  of  the 

sun, 
And  his  gathering  sleep  falls  from  him  mid  the  glory  and 

the  blaze ; 

And  he  sees  the  world  grow  merry  and  looks  on  the  light- 
ened ways, 


224  SIGURD   THE   VOLSUNG. 

While  the  ruddy  streaks  are  melting  in  the  day-flood 

broad  and  white ; 
Then  the  morn-dusk  he  f  orgetteth,  and  the  moon-lit  waste 

of  night, 
And  the  hall  whence  he  departed  with  its  yellow  candles' 

flare : 
So  stood  the  Isle-king's  daughter  in  that  treasure-chamber 

fair. 

But  swift  on  his  ways  went  Sigurd,  and  to  Regin's  house 

he  came, 
Where  the  Master  stood  in  the  doorway  and  behind  him 

leapt  the  flame, 
And  dark  he  looked  and  little :  no  more  his  speech  was 

sweet, 
No  words  on  his-  lip  were  gathered  the  Volsung  child  to 

greet, 
Till  he  took  the  sword  from  Sigurd  and  the  shards  of  the 

days  of  old ; 
Then  he  spake : 

"  Will  nothing  serve  thee  save  this  blue 

steel  and  cold, 

The  bane  of  thy  father's  father,  the  fate  of  all  his  kin, 
The  baleful  blade  I  fashioned,  the  Wrath  that  the  Gods 

would  win  ?  " 

Then  answered  the  eye-bright   Sigurd :  "  If    thou  thy 

craft  wilt  do 
Nought  save  these  battle-gleanings  shall  be  my  helper 

true: 

And  what  if  thou  begrudgest,  and  my  battle-blade  be  dull, 
Yet  the  hand  of  the  Norns  is  lifted  and  the  cup  is  over- 
full. 

Repent'st  thou  ne'er  so  sorely  that  thy  kin  must  lie  alow, 
How  much  soe'er  thou  longest  the  world  to  overthrow, 
And,  doubting  the  gold  and  the  wisdom,  would  st  even 

now  appease 
Blind  hate  and  eyeless  murder,  and  win  the  world  with 

these ; 
O'er-late  is  the  time  for  repenting  the  word  thy  lips  have 

said : 
Thou  shalt  have  the  Gold  and  the  wisdom  and  take  its 

curse  on  thine  head. 


REGIN.  225 

I  say  that  thy  lips  have  spoken,  and  no  more  with  thee  it 

.lies 
To  do  the  deed  or  leave  it :  since  thou  hast  shown  mine 

eyes 

The  world  that  was  aforetime,  I  see  the  world  to  be ; 
And  woe  to  the  tangling  thicket,  or  the  wall  that  hin- 

dereth  me ! 
And  short  is  the  space  I  will  tarry  ;  for  how  if  the  Worm 

should  die 
Ere  the  first  of  my  strokes  be  stricken  ?    Wilt  thou  get 

to  thy  mastery 

And  knit  these  shards  together  that  once  in  the  Bran- 
stock  stood  ? 
But  if  not  and  a  smith's  hands  fail  me,  a  King's  hand  yet 

shall  be  good ; 
And  the  Noras  have  doomed  thy  brother.     And  yet  I 

deem  this  sword 
Is  the  slayer  of  the  Serpent,  and  the  scatterer  of  the 

Hoard." 

Great  waxed  the  gloom  of  Kegin,  and  he  said :  "  Thou 

sayest  sooth, 
For  none  may  turn  him  backward :  the  sword  of  a  very 

youth 
Shall  one  day  end  my  cunning,  as  the  Gods  my  joyance 

slew, 
When  nought  thereof  they  were  deeming,  and  another 

thing  would  do. 
But  this  sword  shall  slay  the  Serpent,  and  do  another 

deed, 
And  many  an  one  thereafter  till  it  fail  thee  in  thy 

need. 
But  as  fair  and  great  as  thou  standest,  yet  get  thee  from 

mine  house, 

For  in  me  too  might  ariseth,  and  the  place  is  perilous 
With  the  craft  that  was  aforetime,  and  shall  never  be 

again, 
When  the  hands  that  have  taught  thee  cunning  have 

failed  from  the  world  of  men. 
Thou  art  wroth ;  but  thy  wrath  must  slumber  till  fate  its 

blossom  bear ; 
Not  thus  were  the  eyes  of  Odin  when  I  held  him  in  the 

snare. 


226  SIGURD   THE    VOLSUNG. 

Depart !  lest  the  end  overtake  us  ere  thy  work  and  mine 

be  done, 
But  come  again  in  the  night-tide  and  the  slumber  of  the 

sun, 
When  the  sharded  moon  of  April  hangs  round  in  the 

undark  May." 

Hither  and  thither  awhile  did  the  heart  of  Sigurd  sway ; 
For  he  feared  no  craft  of  the  Dwarf -kind,  nor  heeded  the 

ways  of  Fate, 
But  his  hand  wrought  e'en  as  his  heart  would  :  and  now 

was  he  weary  with  hate 
Of  the  hatred  and  scorn  of  the  Gods,  and  the  greed  of 

gold  and  of  gain, 
And  the  weaponless  hands  of  the  stripling  of  the  wrath 

and  the  rending  were  fain. 
But  there  stood  Regin  the  Master,  and  his  eyes  were  on 

Sigurd's  eyes, 
Though  nought  belike  they  beheld  him,  and  his  brow  was 

sad  and  wise ; 
And  the  greed  died  out  of  his  visage  and  he  stood  like 

an  image  of  old. 

So  the  Noras  drew  Sigurd  away,  and  the  tide  was  an 
even  of  gold, 

And  sweet  in  the  April  even  were  the  fowl-kind  singing 
their  best ; 

And  the  light  of  life  smote  Sigurd,  and  the  joy  that 
knows  no  rest, 

And  the  fond  unnamed  desire,  and  the  hope  of  hidden 
things ; 

And  he  wended  fair  and  lovely  to  the  house  of  the  feast- 
ing Kings. 

But  now  when  the  moon  was  at  full  and  the  undark  May 

begun, 

Went  Sigurd  unto  Eegin  mid  the  slumber  of  the  sun, 
And  amidst  the  fire-hall's  pavement  the  King  of   the 

Dwarf-kind  stood 
Like  an  image  of  deeds  departed  and  days  that  once 

were  good ; 
And  he  seemed  but  faint  and  weary,  and  his  eyes  were 

dim  and  dazed 


REGIN.  227 

As  they  met  the  glory  of  Sigurd  where  the  fitful  candles 
blazed. 

Then  he  spake : 

"  Hail,  Son  of  the  Volsungs,  the  corner- 
stone is  laid, 

I  have  toiled  and  thou  hast  desired,  and,  lo,  the  fateful 
blade!" 

Then  Sigurd  saw  it  lying  on  the  ashes  slaked  and  pale 
Like  the  sun  and  the  lightning  mingled  mid  the  even's 

cloudy  bale; 
For  ruddy  and  great  were  the  hilts,  and  the  edges  fine 

and  wan, 

And  all  adown  to  the  blood-point  a  very  flame  there  ran 
That  swallowed  the  runes  of  wisdom  wherewith  its  sides 

were  scored. 
No  sound  did  Sigurd  utter  as  he  stooped  adown  for  his 

sword, 
But  it  seemed  as  his  lips  were  moving  with  speech  of 

strong  desire. 
White  leapt  the  blade  o'er  his  head,  and  he  stood  in  the 

ring  of  its  fire 
As  hither  and  thither  it  played,  till  it  fell  on  the  anvil's 

strength, 
And  he  cried  aloud  in  his  glory,  and  held  out  the  sword 

full  length, 
As  one  who  would  show  it  the  world ;  for  the  edges  were 

dulled  no  whit, 

And  the  anvil  was  cleft  to  the  pavement  with  the  dread- 
ful dint  of  it. 

But  Eegin  cried  to  his  harp-strings :   "  Before  the  days 

of  men 
I  smithied  the  Wrath  of  Sigurd,  and  now  is  it  smithied 

again : 
And  my  hand  alone  hath  done  it,  and  my  heart  alone 

hath  dared 
To  bid  that  man  to  the  mountain,  and  behold  his  glory 

bared. 

Ah,  if  the  Son  of  Sigmund  might  wot  of  the  thing  I  would, 
Then  how  were  the  ages  bettered,  and  the  world  all  waxen 

good! 


228  SIGURD   THE    VOLSUNG. 

Then  how  were  the  past  forgotten  and  the  weary  days  of 

yore, 
And  the  hope  of  man  that  dieth  and  the  waste  that  never 

bore! 
How  should  this  one  live  through  the  winter  and  know 

of  all  increase ! 
How  should  that  one  spring  to  the  sunlight  and  bear  the 

blossom  of  peace ! 
No  more  should  the  long-lived  wisdom  o'er  the  waste  of 

the  wilderness  stray ; 
Nor  the  clear-eyed  hero  hasten  to  the  deedless  ending  of 

day. 
And  what  if  the  hearts  of  the  Volsungs  for  this  deed  of 

deeds  were  born, 
How  then  were  their  life-days  evil  and  the  end  of  their 

lives  forlorn  ?  " 

There  stood  Sigurd  the  Volsung,  and  heard  how  the  harp- 
strings  rang, 

But  of  other  things  they  told  him  than  the  hope  that  the 
Master  sang ; 

And  his  world  lay  far  away  from  the  Dwarf-king's  eye- 
less realm 

And  the  road  that  leadeth  nowhere,  and  the  ship  without 
a  helm : 

But  he  spake:  "How oft  shall  I  say  it,  that  I  shall  work 
thy  will? 

If  my  father  hath  made  me  mighty,  thine  heart  shall  I 
fulfil 

With  the  wisdom  and  gold  thou  wouldest,  before  I  wend 
on  my  ways ; 

For  now  hast  thou  failed  me  nought,  and  the  sword  is 
the  wonder  of  days." 

No  word  for  a  while  spake  Begin ;  but  he  hung  his  head 

adown 
As  a  man  that  pondereth  sorely,  and  his  voice  once  more 

was  grown 
As  the  voice  of  the  smithy  ing-master  as  he  spake :  "  This 

Wrath  of  thine 
Hath  cleft  the  hard  and  the  heavy;  it  shall  shear  the 

soft  and  the  fine : 


EEGIN.  229 

Come  forth  to  the  night  and  prove  it." 

So    they  twain 
went  forth  abroad, 

And  the  moon  lay  white  on  the  river  and  lit  the  sleep- 
less ford, 

And  down  to  its  pools  they  wended,  and  the  stream  was 
swift  and  full ; 

Then  Regin  cast  against  it  a  lock  of   fine-spun  wool, 

And  it  whirled  about  on  the  eddy  till  it  met  the  edges 
bared, 

And  as  clean  as  the  careless  water  the  laboured  fleece 
was  sheared. 

Then  Regin  spake:  "It  is  good,  what  the  smithy  ing-carl 

hath  wrought : 
Now  the  work  of  the  King  beginneth,  and  the  end  that 

my  soul  hath  sought. 
Thou  shalt  toil  and  I  shall  desire,  and  the  deed  shall  be 

surely  done : 
For  thy  Wrath  is  alive  and  awake  and  the  story  of  bale 

is  begun." 

Therewith  was  the  Wrath  of  Sigurd  laid  soft  in  a  golden 

sheath 
And  the  peace-strings  knit  around  it ;  for  that  blade  was 

fain  of  death ; 
And  't  is  ill  to  show  such  edges  to  the  broad  blue  light 

of  day, 
Or  to  let  the  hall-glare  light  them,  if  ye  list  not  play  the 

play. 


SIGURD  SLAYETH  BEGIN  THE  MASTER  OF  MASTERS  ON 
THE  GLITTERING  HEATH.27 

There  standeth  Sigurd  the  Volsung,  and  leaneth  on  his 

sword, 
And  beside  him  now  is  Greyfell  and  looks  on  his  golden 

lord, 
And  the  world  is  awake  and  living;  and  whither  now 

shall  they  wend, 
Who  have  come  to  the  Glittering  Heath,  and  wrought 

that  deed  to  its  end  ? 


230  SIGURD   THE    VOLSUNG. 

For  hither  comes  Begin  the  Master  from  the  skirts  of 

the  field  of  death, 
And  he  shadeth  his  eyes  from  the  sunlight  as  afoot  he 

goeth  and  saith : 
"  Ah,  let  me  live  for  a  while !  for  a  while  and  all  shall  be 

well, 
When  passed  is  the  house  of  murder  and  I  creep  from 

the  prison  of  hell." 

Afoot  he  went  o'er  the  desert,  and  he  came  unto  Sigurd 

and  stared 
At  the  golden  gear  of  the  man,  and  the  Wrath  yet  bloody 

and  bared, 
And  the  light  locks  raised  by  the  wind,  and  the  eyes 

beginning  to  smile, 
And  the  lovely  lips  of  the  Volsung,  and  the  brow  that 

knew  no  guile ; 
And  he  murmured  under  his  breath  while  his  eyes  grew 

white  with  wrath : 
"0  who  art  thou,  and  wherefore,  and  why  art  thou  in 

the  path?" 

Then  he  turned  to  the  ash-grey  Serpent,  and  grovelled 

low  on  the  ground, 
And  he  drank  of  that  pool  of  the  blood  where  the  stones 

of  the  wild  were  drowned, 

And  long  he  lapped  as  a  dog ;  but  when  he  arose  again, 
Lo,  a  flock  of  the  mountain-eagles  that  drew  to  the  feast- 

ful  plain ; 
And  he  turned  and  looked  on  Sigurd,  as  bright  in  the 

sun  he  stood, 
A  stripling  fair  and  slender,  and  wiped  the  Wrath  of  the 

blood. 

But  Begin  cried :  "  0  Dwarf-kind,  0  many-shifting  folk, 
0  shapes  of  might  and  wonder,  am  I  too  freed  from  the 


That  binds  my  soul  to  my  body  a  withered  thing  forlorn, 

While  the  short-lived  fools  of  man-folk  so  fair  and  oft 
are  born  ? 

Now  swift  in  the  air  shall  I  be,  and  young  in  the  con- 
course of  Kings, 

If  my  heart  shall  come  to  desire  the  gain  of  earthly 
things." 


REGIN.  231 

And  lie  looked  and  saw  how  Sigurd  was  sheathing  the 

Flame  of  War, 
And  the  eagles  screamed  in  the  wind,  but  their  voice 

came  faint  from  afar  : 
Then  he  scowled,  and  crouched,  and  darkened,  and  came 

to  Sigurd  and  spake : 
"  0  child,  thou  hast  slain  my  brother,  and  the  Wrath  is 

alive  and  awake." 

"  Thou  sayest  sooth,"  said  Sigurd,  "  thy  deed  and  mine 

is  done : 
But  now  our  ways  shall  sunder,  for  here,  meseemeth,  the 

sun 
Hath  but  little  of  deeds  to  do,  and  no  love  to  win  aback." 

Then  Kegin  crouched  before  him,  and  he  spake :   "  Fare 

on  to  the  wrack ! 
Fare  on  to  the  murder  of  men,  and  the  deeds  of  thy 

kindred  of  old ! 
And  surely  of  thee  as  of  them  shall  the  tale  be  speedily 

told. 
Thou  hast  slain  thy  Master's  brother,  and  what  wouldst 

thou  say  thereto, 
Were  the  judges  met  for  the  judging  and  the  doom-ring 

hallowed  due  ?  " 

Then  Sigurd  spake  as  aforetime :  "  Thy  deed  and  mine 

it  was, 
And  now  our  ways  shall  sunder,  and  into  the  world  will 

I  pass." 

But  Kegin  darkened  before  him,  and  exceeding  grim  was 
he  grown, 

And  he  spake :  "  Thou  hast  slain  my  brother,  and  where- 
with wilt  thou  atone  ?  " 

"  Stand  up,  0  Master,"  said  Sigurd,  "  0  Singer  of  ancient 

days, 
And  take  the  wealth  I  have  won  thee,  ere  we  wend  on 

sundering  ways. 
I  have  toiled  and  thou  hast  desired,  and  the  Treasure  is 

surely  anear, 
And  thou  hast  wisdom  to  find  it,  and  I  have  slain  thy 

fear." 


232  SIGURD   THE   VOLSUNG. 

But  Begin  crouched  and  darkened :  "  Thou  hast  slain 
my  brother,"  he  said. 

"  Take  thou  the  Gold,"  quoth  Sigurd,  "  for  the  ransom  of 
my  head ! " 

Then  Begin  crouched  and  darkened,  and  over  the  earth 

he  hung ; 
And  he  said:    "Thou  hast  slain  my  brother,  and  the 

Gods  are  yet  but  young." 

Bright  Sigurd  towered  above  him,  and  the  Wrath  cried 

out  in  the  sheath, 
And  Begin  writhed  against  it  as  the  adder  turns  on 

death ; 
And  he  spake :  "  Thou  hast  slain  my  brother,  and  to-day 

shalt  thou  be  my  thrall : 
Yea  a  King  shall  be  my  cook-boy  and  this  heath  my 

cooking-hall." 

Then  he  crept  to  the  ash-grey  coils  where  the  life  of  his 
brother  had  lain, 

And  he  drew  a  glaive  from  his  side  and  smote  the  smit- 
ten and  slain, 

And  tore  the  heart  from  Fafnir,  while  the  eagles  cried 
o'erhead, 

And  sharp  and  shrill  was  their  voice  o'er  the  entrails  of 
the  dead. 

Then  Begin  spake  to  Sigurd  :  "  Of  this  slaying  wilt  thou 

be  free  ? 

Then  gather  thou  fire  together  and  roast  the  heart  for  me. 
That  I  may  eat  it  and  live,  and  be  thy  master  and  more ; 
¥or  therein  was  might  and  wisdom,  and  the  grudged  and 

hoarded  lore : — 
• —  Or  else,  depart  on  thy  ways  afraid  from  the  Glittering 

Heath." 

Then  he  fell  abackward  and  slept,  nor  set  his  sword  in 

the  sheath, 
But  his  hand  was  red  on  the  hilts  and  blue  were  the  edges 

bared, 
Ash-grey  was  his  visage  waxen,  and  with  open  eyes  he 

stared 


REGIN.  233 

On  the  height  of  heaven  above  him,  and  a  fearful  thing 
he  seemed, 

As  his  soul  went  wide  in  the  world,  and  of  rule  and  king- 
ship he  dreamed. 

But  Sigurd  took  the  Heart,  and  wood  on  the  waste  he 

found, 
The  wood  that  grew  and  died,  as  it  crept  on  the  niggard 

ground, 

And  grew  and  died  again,  and  lay  like  whitened  bones  ; 
And  the  ernes  cried  over  his  head,  as  he  builded  his 

hearth  of  stones, 
And  kindled  the  fire  for  cooking,  and  sat  and  sang  o'er 

the  roast 

The  song  of  his  fathers  of  old,  and  the  Wolflings'  gather- 
ing host : 

So  there  on  the  Glittering  Heath  rose  up  the  little  flame, 
And  the  dry  sticks  crackled  amidst  it,  and  alow  the  eagles 

came, 
And  seven  they  were  by  tale,  and  they  pitched  all  round 

about 

The  cooking-fire  of  Sigurd,  and  sent  their  song-speech  out : 
But  nought  he  knoweth  its  wisdom,  or  the  word  that  they 

would  speak : 
And  hot  grew  the  Heart  of  Fafnir  and  sang  amid  the 

reek. 

Then  Sigurd  looketh  on  Begin,  and  he  deemeth  it  over- 
long 

That  he  dighteth  the  dear-bought  morsel,  and  the  might 
for  the  Master  of  wrong, 

So  he  reacheth  his  hand  to  the  roast  to  see  if  the  cook- 
ing be  o'er ; 

But  the  blood  and  the  fat  seethed  from  it  and  scalded  his 
finger  sore, 

And  he  set  his  hand  to  his  mouth  to  quench  the  fleshly 
smart, 

And  he  tasted  the  flesh  of  the  Serpent  and  the  blood  of 
Fafnir's  Heart: 

Then  there  came  a  change  upon  him,  for  the  speech  of 
fowl  he  knew, 

And  wise  in  the  ways  of  the  beast-kind  as  the  Dwarfs  of 
old  he  grew ; 


234  SIGURD   THE  VOLSUNG. 

And  lie  knitted  his  brows  and  hearkened,  and  wrath  in 

his  heart  arose; 

For  he  felt  beset  of  evil  in  a  world  of  many  foes. 
But  the  hilts  of  the  Wrath  he  handled,  and  Kegin's  heart 

he  saw, 
And  how  that  the  Foe  of  the  Gods  the  net  of  death  would 

draw ; 
And  his  bright  eyes  flashed  and  sparkled,  and  his  mouth 

grew  set  and  stern, 
As  he  hearkened  the  voice  of  the  eagles,  and  their  song 

began  to  learn. 

For  the  first  cried  out  in  the  desert :  "  0  mighty  Sig- 

mund's  son, 
How  long  wilt  thou  sit  and  tarry  now  the  dear-bought 

roast  is  done  ?  " 

And  the  second  :  "  Volsung  arise  !  for  the  horns  blow  up 

to  the  hall, 
And  dight  are  the  purple  hangings,  and  the  King  to  the 

feasting  should  fall." 

And  the  third :  "  How  great  is  the  feast  if  the  eater  eat 

aright 
The  Heart  of  the  wisdom  of  old  and  the  after-world's 

delight!" 

And  the  fourth:  "Yea,  what  of  Kegin?  shall  he  scatter 

wrack  o'er  the  world  ? 
Shall  the  father  be  slain  by  the  son,  and  the  brother 

'gainst  brother  be  hurled  ?  " 

And  the  fifth :  "  He  hath  taught  a  stripling  the  gifts  of  a 

God  to  give : 
He  hath  reared  up  a  King  for  the  slaying,  that  he  alone 

might  live." 

And  the  sixth :  "  He  shall  waken  mighty  as  a  God  that 

scorneth  at  truth ; 
He  hath  drunk  of  the  blood  of  the  Serpent,  and  drowned 

all  hope  and  ruth." 

And  the  seventh :  "  Arise,  0  Sigurd,  lest  the  hour  be 
overlate ! 


BEGIN.  235 

For  the  sun  in  the  mid-noon  shineth,  and  swift  is  the 

hand  of  Fate: 
Arise  !  lest  the  world  run  backward  and  the  blind  heart 

have  its  will, 

And  once  again  be  tangled  the  sundered  good  and  ill ; 
Lest  love  and  hatred  perish,  lest  the  world  forget  its 

tale, 
And  the  Gods  sit  deedless,  dreaming,  in  the  high-walled 

heavenly  vale." 

Then  swift  ariseth  Sigurd,  and  the  Wrath  in  his  hand  is 
bare, 

And  he  looketh,  and  Begin  sleepeth,  and  his  eyes  wide- 
open  glare ; 

But  his  lips  smile  false  in  his  dreaming,  and  his  hand  is 
on  the  sword ; 

For  he  dreams  himself  the  Master  and  the  new  world's 
fashioning-lord. 

And  his  dream  hath  forgotten  Sigurd,  and  the  King's  life 
lies  in  the  pit ; 

He  is  nought ;  Death  gnaweth  upon  him,  while  the  Dwarfs 
in  mastery  sit. 

But  lo,  how  the  eyes  of  Sigurd  the  heart  of  the  guileful 

behold, 
And  great  is  Allfather  Odin,  and  upriseth  the  Curse  of 

the  Gold, 
And  the  Branstock  bloometh  to  heaven  from  the  ancient 

wondrous  root ; 
The  summer  hath  shone  on  its  blossoms,  and  Sigurd's 

Wrath  is  the  fruit: 
Dread  then  he  cried  in  the  desert :  "  Guile-master,  lo  thy 

deed! 
Hast  thou  nurst  my  life  for  destruction,  and  my  death  to 

serve  thy  need  ? 
Hast  thou  kept  me  here  for  the  net  and  the  death  that 

tame  things  die  ? 
Hast  thou  feared  me  overmuch,  thou  Foe  of  the  Gods  on 

high? 
Lest  the  sword  thine  hand  was  wielding  should  turn 

about  and  cleave 
The  tangled  web  of  nothing  thou  hadst  wearied  thyself  to 

weave. 


236  SIGURD   THE  VOLSUNG. 

Lo  here  the  sword  and  the  stroke !  judge  the  Noras  be- 
twixt us  twain  ! 

But  for  me,  I  will  live  and  die  not,  nor  shall  all  my  hope 
be  vain." 

Then  his  second  stroke  struck  Sigurd,  for  the  Wrath 

flashed  thin  and  white, 
And  'twixt  head  and  trunk  of  Begin  fierce  ran  the  fateful 

light ; 
And  there  lay  brother  by  brother  a  faded  thing  and 

wan. 
But  Sigurd  cried  in  the  desert :  "  So  far  have  I  wended 

on  ! 
Dead  are  the  foes  of  God-home  that  would  blend  the  good 

and  the  ill ; 
And  the  World  shall  yet  be  famous,  and  the  Gods  shall 

have  their  will. 
Nor  shall  I  be  dead  and  forgotten,  while  the  earth  grows 

worse  and  worse, 
With  the  blind  heart  King  o'er  the  people,  and  binding 

curse  with  curse." 


How  SIGURD  TOOK  TO  HIM  THE  TREASURE  OF  THE 
ELF  ANDVARI. 

Now  Sigurd  eats  of  the  Heart  that  once  in  the  Dwarf- 
king  lay, 
The  hoard  of  the  wisdom  begrudged,  the  might  of  the 

earlier  day. 
Then  wise  of  heart  was  he  waxen,  but  longing  in  him 

grew 
To  sow  the  seed  he  had  gotten,  and  till  the  field  he 

knew. 
So  he  leapeth  aback  of  Greyfell,  and  rideth  the  desert 

bare, 
And  the  hollow  slot  of  Fafnir,  that  led  to  the  Serpent's 

lair. 

Then  long  he  rode  adown  it,  and  the  ernes  flew  overhead, 
And  tidings  great  and  glorious  of  that  Treasure  of  old 

they  said. 
So  far  o'er  the  waste  he  wended,  and  when  the  night  was 

tome 


REGIN.  237 

He  saw  the  earth-old  dwelling,  the  dread  Gold-wallower's 

home: 
On  the  skirts  of  the  Heath  it  was  builded  by  a  tumbled 

stony  bent; 
High  went  that  house  to  the  heavens,  down  'neath  the 

earth  it  went, 
Of  unwrought  iron  fashioned  for  the  heart  of  a  greedy 

King: 
'T  was  a  mountain,  blind  without,  and  within  was  its 

plenishing 
But  the  Hoard  of  Andvari  the  ancient,  and  the  sleeping 

Curse  unseen, 
The  Gold  of  the  Gods  that  spared  not  and  the  greedy  that 

have  been. 


Through  the  door  strode  Sigurd  the  Volsung,  and  the 

grey  moon  and  the  sword 
Fell  in  on  the  tawny  gold-heaps  of  the  ancient  hapless 

Hoard : 

Gold  gear  of  hosts  unburied,  and  the  coin  of  cities  dead, 
Great  spoil  of  the  ages  of  battle,  lay  there  on  the  Serpent's 

bed: 
Huge  blocks  from  mid-earth  quarried,  where  none  but  the 

Dwarfs  have  mined, 
Wide  sands  of  the  golden  rivers  no  foot  of  man  may 

find 
Lay  'neath  the  spoils  of  the  mighty  and  the  ruddy  rings 

of  yore : 
But  amidst  was  the  Helm  of  Aweing  that  the  Fear  of 

earth-folk  bore, 
And  there  gleamed  a  wonder  beside  it,  the  Hauberk  all 

of  gold, 
Whose  like  is  not  in  the  heavens  nor  has  earth  of  its 

fellow  told : 

There  Sigurd  seeth  moreover  Andvari's  Ring  of  Gain, 
The  hope  of  Loki's  finger,  the  Eansom's  utmost  grain ; 
For  it  shone  on  the  midmost  gold-heap  like  the  first  star 

set  in  the  sky 
In  the  yellow  space  of  even  when  moon-rise  draweth 

anigh. 
Then  laughed  the  Son  of  Sigmund,  and  stooped  to  the 

golden  land, 


238  SIGURD   THE   VOLSUNG. 

And  gathered  that  first  of  the  harvest  and  set  it  on  his 

hand; 
And  he  did  on  the  Helm  of  Aweing,  and  the  Hauberk 

all  of  gold, 
Whose  like  is  not  in  the  heavens  nor  has  earth  of  its 

fellow  told : 
Then  he  praised  the  day  of  the  Volsungs  amid  the  yellow 

light, 
And  he  set  his  hand  to  the  labour  and  put  forth  his 

kingly  might ; 
He  dragged  forth  gold  to  the  moon,  on  the  desert's  face 

he  laid 
The  innermost  earth's  adornment,  and  rings    for  the 

nameless  made ; 
He  toiled  and  loaded  Greyfell,  and  the  cloudy  war-steed 

shone 
And  the  gear  of  Sigurd  rattled  in  the  flood  of  moonlight 

wan; 
There  he  toiled  and  loaded  Greyfell,  and  the  Volsung's 

armour  rang 
Mid  the  yellow  bed  of  the  Serpent:  but  without  the  eagles 

sang: 

"  Bind  the  red  rings,  0  Sigurd !     Let  the  gold  shine  free 

and  clear ! 
For  what  hath  the  Son  of  the  Volsungs  the  ancient  Curse 

to  fear?" 

"Bind  the  red  rings,  0  Sigurd !  for  thy  tale  is  well  begun, 
And  the  world  shall  be  good  and  gladdened  by  the  Gold 
lit  up  by  the  sun." 

"Bind  the  red  rings,  O  Sigurd,  and  gladden  all  thine 

heart! 
For  the  world  shall  make  thee  merry  ere  thou  and  she 

depart." 

"  Bind  the  red  rings,  0  Sigurd !  for  the  ways  go  green 

below, 
Go  green  to  the  dwelling  of  Kings,  and  the  halls  that  the 

Queen-folk  know." 

"  Bind  the  red  rings,  0  Sigurd  !  for  what  is  there  bides  by 
the  way, 


REGIN.  239 

Save  the  joy  of  folk  to  awaken,  and  the  dawn  of  the 
merry  day?" 

"  Bind  the  red  rings,  0  Sigurd !  for  the  strife  awaits  thine 

hand, 
And  a  plenteous  war-field's  reaping,  and  the  praise  of 

many  a  land." 

"  Bind  the  red  rings,  O  Sigurd !     But  how  shall  store- 
house hold 
That  glory  of  thy  winning  and  the  tidings  to  be  told  ?  " 

Now  the  moon  was  dead,  and  the  star-worlds  were  great 

on  the  heavenly  plain, 
When  the  steed  was  fully  laden ;  then  Sigurd  taketh  the 

rein 
And  turns  to  the  ruined  rock-wall  that  the  lair  was  built 

beneath, 
For  there  he  deemed  was  the  gate  and  the  door  of  the 

Glittering  Heath, 
But  not  a  whit  moved  Greyfell  for  ought  that  the  King 

might  do ; 
Then  Sigurd  pondered  awhile,  till  the  heart  of  the  beast 

he  knew, 

And  clad  in  all  his  war-gear  he  leaped  to  the  saddle-stead, 
And  with  pride  and  mirth  neighed  Greyfell  and  tossed 

aloft  his  head, 
And  sprang  unspurred  o'er  the  waste,  and  light  and  swift 

he  went, 
And  breasted  the  broken  rampart,  the   stony  tumbled 

bent; 
And  over  the  brow  he  clomb,  and  there  beyond  was  the 

world, 
A  place  of  many  mountains  and  great  crags  together 

hurled. 
So  down  to  the  west  he  wendeth,  and  goeth  swift  and 

light, 
And  the   stars  are  beginning  to  wane,  and  the  day  is 

mingled  with  night ; 
For  full  fain  was  the  sun  to  arise  and  look  on  the  Gold 

set  free, 
And  the  Dwarf-wrought  rings  of  the  Treasure  and  the 

gifts  from  the  floor  of  the  sea. 


240  SIGURD   THE   VOL  SUNG. 


How  SIGURD  AWOKE  BRYNHILD  UPON 

By  long  roads  rideth  Sigurd  amidst  that  world  of  stone, 
And  somewhat  south  he  turneth;  for  he  would  not  be 

alone, 
But  longs  for  the  dwellings  of  man-folk,  and  the  kingly 

people's  speech, 
And  the  days  of  the  glee  and  the  joyance,  where  men 

laugh  each  to  each. 
But  still  the  desert  endureth,  and  afar  must  Greyfell 

fare 
From  the  wrack  of  the  Glittering  Heath,  and  Fafnir's 

golden  lair. 
Long  Sigurd  rideth  the  waste,  when,  lo,  on  a  morning  of 

day 
From  out  of  the  tangled  crag-walls,  amidst  the  cloud-land 

grey 
Comes  up  a  mighty  mountain,  and  it  is  as  though  there 

burns 
A  torch  amidst  of  its  cloud-wreath;   so  thither  Sigurd 

turns, 
For  he  deems  indeed  from  its  topmost  to  look  on  the  best 

of  the  earth ; 
And  Greyfell  neigheth  beneath  him,  and  his  heart  is  full 

of  mirth. 

So  he  rideth  higher  and  higher,  and  the  light  grows  great 

and  strange, 
And  forth  from  the  clouds  it  flickers,  till  at  noon  they 

gather  and  change, 
And  settle  thick  on  the  mountain,  and  hide  its  head  from 

sight ; 
But  the  winds  in  a  while  are  awakened,  and  day  bettereth 

ere  the  night, 
And,  lifted  a  measureless  mass  o'er  the  desert  crag-walls 

high, 

Cloudless  the  mountain  riseth  against  the  sunset  sky, 
The  sea  of  the  sun  grown  golden,  as  it  ebbs  from  the  day's 

desire ; 
And  the  light  that  afar  was  a  torch  is  grown  a  river  of 

fire, 


BEGIN.  241 

And  the  mountain  is  black  above  it,  and  below  is  it  dark 

and  dun ; 
And  there  is  the  head  of  Hindfell  as  an  island  in  the  sun. 

Night  falls,  but  yet  rides  Sigurd,  and  hath  no  thought  of 

rest, 
For  he  longs  to  climb  that  rock-world  and  behold  the 

earth  at  its  best ; 
But  now  mid  the  maze  of  the  foot-hills  he  seeth  the  light 

no  more, 
And  the  stars  are  lovely  and  gleaming  on  the  lightless 

heavenly  floor. 

So  up  and  up  he  wendeth  till  the  night  is  wearing  thin ; 
And  he  rideth  a  rift  of  the  mountain,  and  all  is  dark 

therein, 
Till  the  stars  are  dimmed  by  dawning  and  the  wakening 

world  is  cold ; 

Then  afar  in  the  upper  rock-wall  a  breach  doth  he  behold, 
And  a  flood  of  light  poured  inward  the  doubtful  dawning 

blinds : 
So  swift  he  rideth  thither  and  the  mouth  of  the  breach  he 

finds, 
And  sitteth  awhile  on  Greyfell  on  the  marvellous  thing  to 

gaze: 
For  lo,  the  side  of  Hindfell  enwrapped  by  the  fervent 

blaze, 
And  nought  'twixt  earth  and  heaven  save  a  world  of 

flickering  flame, 
And  a  hurrying  shifting  tangle,  where  the  dark  rents 

went  and  came. 

Great  groweth  the  heart  of  Sigurd  with  uttermost  desire, 

And  he  crieth  kind  to  Greyfell,  and  they  hasten  up,  and 
nigher, 

Till  he  draweth  rein  in  the  dawning  on  the  face  of  Hind- 
fell's  steep : 

But  who  shall  heed  the  dawning  where  the  tongues  of 
that  wildfire  leap  ? 

For  they  weave  a  wavering  wall,  that  driveth  over  the 
heaven 

The  wind  that  is  born  within  it;  nor  ever  aside  is  it  driven 

By  the  mightiest  wind  of  the  waste,  and  the  rain-flood 
amidst  it  is  nought ; 


242  SIGURD   THE   VOLSUNG. 

And  no  wayfarer's  door  and  no  window  the  hand  of  its 

builder  hath  wrought. 
But  thereon  is  the  Volsung  smiling  as  its  breath  uplifteth 

his  hair, 
And  his  eyes  shine  bright  with  its  image,  and  his  mail 

gleams  white  and  fair, 
And  his  war-helm  pictures  the  heavens  and  the  waning 

stars  behind: 

But  his  neck  is  Greyfell  stretching  to  snuff  at  the  flame- 
wall  blind, 
And  his  cloudy  flank  upheaveth,  and  tinkleth  the  knitted 

mail, 
And  the  gold  of  the  uttermost  waters  is  waxen  wan  and 

pale. 

Now  Sigurd  turns  in  his  saddle,  and  the  hilt  of  the  Wrath 

he  shifts, 
And  draws  a  girth  the  tighter;  then  the  gathered  reins 

he  lifts, 
And  crieth  aloud  to  Greyfell,  and  rides  at  the  wildfire's 

heart; 
But  the  white  wall  wavers  before  him  and  the  flame-flood 

rusheth  apart, 
And  high  o'er  his  head  it  riseth,  and  wide  and  wild  is  its 

roar 
As  it  beareth  the  mighty  tidings  to  the  very  heavenly 

floor: 
But  he  rideth  through  its  roaring  as  the  warrior  rides  the 

rye, 
When  it  bows  with  the  wind  of  the  summer  and  the  hid 

spears  draw  anigh ; 
The  white  flame  licks  his  raiment  and  sweeps  through 

Greyfell's  mane, 
And  bathes  both  hands  of  Sigurd  and  the  hilts  of  Fafnir's 

bane, 
And  winds  about  his  war-helm  and  mingles  with  his 

hair, 
But  nought  his  raiment  dusketh  or  dims  his  glittering 

gear; 
Then  it  fails  and  fades  and  darkens  till  all  seems  left 

behind, 
And  dawn  and  the  blaze  are  swallowed  in  mid-mirk  stark 

and  blind. 


REGIN.  243 

But  forth  a  little  further  and  a  little  further  on 

And  all  is  calm  about  him,  and  he  sees  the  scorched  earth 


wan 


wan. 
Beneath  a  glimmering  twilight,  and  he  turns  his  conquer- 

And  a  ring  of  pale  slaked  ashes  on  the  side  of  Hindfell 

And  the  world  of  the  waste  is  beyond  it;  and  all  is 

hushed  and  grey, 
And  the  new-risen  moon  is  a-paling,  and  the  stars  grow 

faint  with  day. 
Then  Sigurd  looked  before  him  and  a  Shield-burg  there 

he  saw, 

A  wall  of  the  tiles  of  Odin  wrought  clear  without  a  flaw, 
The  gold  by  the  silver  gleaming,  and  the  ruddy  by  the 

white ; 
And  the  blazonings  of  their  glory  were  done  upon  them 

bright, 
As  of  dear  things  wrought  for  the  war-lords  new  come  to 

Odin's  hall. 

Piled  high  aloft  to  the  heavens  uprose  that  battle-wall, 
And  far  o'er  the  topmost  shield-rim  for  a  banner  of  fame 

there  hung 

A  glorious  golden  buckler ;  and  against  the  staff  it  rung 
As  the  earliest  wind  of  dawning  uprose  on  Hindfell  s 

f  £LCG 

And  the  light  from  the  yellowing  east  beamed  soft  on 
the  shielded  place. 

But  the  Wrath  cried  out  in  answer  as  Sigurd  leapt  adown 
To  the  wasted   soil   of  the  desert  by  that  rampart  of 

renown; 
He  looked  but  little  beneath  it,  and  the  dwelling  ot  0 

it  seemed, 

As  against  its  gleaming  silence  the  eager  Sigurd  gleamed : 
He  draweth  not  sword  from   scabbard,  as  the  wall  he 

wendeth  around, 
And  it  is  but  the  wind  and  Sigurd  that  wakeneth  any 

sound : 
But,  lo,  to  the  gate  he  cometh,  and  the  doors  are  open 

wide,  , 

And  no  warder  the  way  withstandeth,  and  no  earls  by  the 

threshold  abide ; 


244  SIGURD   THE   VOLSUNG. 

So  he  stands  awhile  and  marvels  ;  then  the  baleful  light 

of  the  Wrath 
Gleams  bare  in  his  ready  hand  as  he  wendeth  the  inward 

path: 
For  he  doubted  some  guile  of  the  Gods,  or  perchance 

some  Dwarf -king's  snare, 
Or  a  mock  of  the  Giant  people  that  shall  fade  in  the 

morning  air : 
But  he  getteth  him  in  and  gazeth;  and  a  wall  doth  he 

behold, 
And  the  ruddy  set  by  the  white,  and  the  silver  by  the 

gold; 

But  within  the  garth  that  it  girdeth  no  work  of  man  is  set, 
But  the  utmost  head  of  Hindf ell  ariseth  higher  yet ; 
And  below  in  the  very  midmost  is  a  Giant-fashioned 

mound, 
Piled  high  as  the  rims  of  the  Shield-burg  above  the  level 

ground ; 

And  there,  on  that  mound  of  the  Giants,  o'er  the  wilder- 
ness forlorn, 
A  pale  grey  image  lieth,  and  gleameth  in  the  morn. 

So  there  was  Sigurd  alone ;  and  he  went  from  the  shielded 
door, 

And  aloft  in  the  desert  of  wonder  the  Light  of  the  Bran- 
stock  he  bore ; 

And  he  set  his  face  to  the  earth-mound,  and  beheld  the 
image  wan, 

And  the  dawn  was  growing  about  it ;  and,  lo,  the  shape  of 
a  man 

Set  forth  to  the  eyeless  desert  on  the  tower-top  of  the 
world, 

High  over  the  cloud-wrought  castle  whence  the  windy 
bolts  are  hurled. 

Now  he  comes  to  the  mound  and  climbs  it,  and  will  see 

if  the  man  be  dead ; 
Some  King  of  the  days  forgotten  laid  there  with  crowned 

head, 
Or  the  frame  of  a  God,  it  may  be,  that  in  heaven  hath 

changed  his  life, 
Or  some  glorious  heart  beloved,  God-rapt  from  the  earthly 

strife : 


REGIN.  245 

Now  over  the  body  he  standeth,  and  seeth  it  shapen  fair, 
And  clad  from  head  to  foot-sole  in  pale  grey-glittering 


gear, 
haub 


In  a  hauberk  wrought  as  straitly  as  though  to  the  flesh  it 

were  grown  : 
But  a  great  helm  hideth  the  head  and  is  girt  with  a  glit- 

tering crown. 

So  thereby  he  stoopeth  and  kneeleth,  for  he  deems  it 

were  good  indeed 
If  the  breath  of  life  abide  there  and  the  speech  to  help  at 

need; 
And  as  sweet  as  the  summer  wind  from  a  garden  under 

the  sun 
Cometh  forth  on  the  topmost  Hindfell  the  breath  of  that 

sleeping-one. 
Then  he  saith  he  will  look  on  the  face,  if  it  bear  him 

love  or  hate, 
Or  the  bonds  for  his  life's  constraining,  or  the  sundering 

doom  of  fate. 
So  he  draweth  the  helm  from  the  head,  and,  lo,  the  brow 

snow-white, 
And  the  smooth  unfurrowed  cheeks,  and  the  wise  lips 

breathing  light; 
And  the  face  of  a  woman  it  is,  and  the  fairest  that  ever 

was  born, 
Shone  forth  to  the  empty  heavens  and  the  desert  world 

forlorn  : 
But  he  looketh,  and  loveth  her  sore,  and  he  longeth  her 

spirit  to  move, 
And  awaken  her  heart  to  the  world,  that  she  may  behold 

him  and  love. 
And  he  toucheth  her  breast  and  her  hands,  and  he  loveth 

her  passing  sore  ; 
And  he  saith  :  "  Awake  !  I  am  Sigurd  ;  "  but  she  moveth 

never  the  more. 

Then  he  looked  on  his  bare  bright  blade,  and  he  said  : 

"  Thou  —  what  wilt  thou  do  ? 
For  indeed  as  I  came  by  the  war-garth  thy  voice  of  desire 

I  knew." 
Bright  burnt  the  pale  blue  edges,  for  the  sunrise  drew 

anear, 


246  SIGURD   THE   VOLSUNG. 

And  the  rims  of  the  Shield-burg  glittered,  and  the  east 
was  exceeding  clear : 

So  the  eager  edges  he  settethtothe  Dwarf- wrought  battle- 
coat 

Where  the  hammered  ring-knit  collar  constraineth  the 
woman's  throat ; 

But  the  sharp  Wrath  biteth  and  rendeth,  and  before  it 
fail  the  rings, 

And,  lo,  the  gleam  of  the  linen,  and  the  light  of  golden 
things : 

Then  he  driveth  the  blue  steel  onward,  and  through  the 
skirt,  and  out, 

Till  nought  but  the  rippling  linen  is  wrapping  her  about ; 

Then  he  deems  her  breath  comes  quicker  and  her  breast 
begins  to  heave, 

So  he  turns  about  the  War-Flame  and  rends  down  either 
sleeve, 

Till  her  arms  lie  white  in  her  raiment,  and  a  river  of  sun- 
bright  hair 

Flows  free  o'er  bosom  and  shoulder  and  floods  the  desert 
bare. 

Then  a  flush  cometh  over  her  visage  and  a  sigh  up- 

heaveth  her  breast, 
And  her  eyelids  quiver  and  open,  and  she  wakeneth  into 

rest; 
Wide-eyed  on  the  dawning  she  gazeth,  too  glad  to  change 

or  smile, 
And  but  little  moveth  her  body,  nor  speaketh  she  yet  for 

a  while ; 
Arid  yet  kneels  Sigurd  moveless  her  wakening  speech  to 

heed, 
While  soft  the  waves  of  the  daylight  o'er  the  starless 

heavens  speed ; 
And  the  gleaming  rims  of  the  Shield-burg  yet  bright  and 

brighter  grow, 
And  the  thin  moon  hangeth  her  horns  dead-white  in  the 

golden  glow. 

Then  she  turned  and  gazed  on  Sigurd,  and  her  eyes  met 

the  Volsung's  eyes, 
And  mighty  and  measureless  now  did  the  tide  of  his  love 

arise, 


REGIN.  247 

For  their  longing  had  met  and  mingled,  and  he  knew  of 

her  heart  that  she  loved, 
As  she  spake  unto  nothing  but  him  and  her  lips  with  the 

speech-flood  moved : 

"  0,  what  is  the  thing  so  mighty  that  my  weary  sleep 
hath  torn, 

And  rent  the  fallow  bondage,  and  the  wan  woe  over- 
worn ?  " 

He  said :  "  The  hand  of   Sigurd  and  the  Sword  of  Sig- 

mund's  son, 
And  the  heart  that  the  Volsungs  fashioned  this  deed  for 

thee  have  done." 

But  she  said :  "  Where  then  is  Odin  that  laid  me  here 
alow? 

Long  lasteth  the  grief  of  the  world,  and  man-folk's  tan- 
gled woe ! " 

"  He  dwelleth  above,"  said  Sigurd,  "  but  I  on  the  earth 

abide, 
And  I  came  from  the  Glittering  Heath  the  waves  of  thy 

fire  to  ride." 

But  therewith  the  sun  rose  upward  and  lightened  all  the 

earth, 
And  the  light  flashed  up  to  the  heavens  from  the  rims  of 

the  glorious  girth ; 
But  they  twain  arose  together,  and  with  both  her  palms 

outspread, 
And  bathed  in  the  light  returning,  she  cried  aloud  and 

said : 

"  All  hail,  0  Day  and  thy  Sons,  and  thy  kin  of  the  col- 
oured things ! 

Hail,  following  Night,  and  thy  Daughter  that  leadeth  thy 
wavering  wings ! 

Look  down  with  unangry  eyes  on  us  to-day  alive, 

And  give  us  the  hearts  victorious,  and  the  gain  for  which 
we  strive ! 

All  hail,  ye  Lords  of  God-home,  and  ye  Queens  of  the 
House  of  Gold ! 


248  SIGURD   THE  VOLSUNG. 

Hail,  thou  dear  Earth  that  bearest,  and  thou  Wealth  of 

field  and  fold ! 
Give  us,  your  noble  children,  the  glory  of  wisdom  and 

speech, 
And  the  hearts  and  the  hands  of  healing,  and  the  mouths 

and  hands  that  teach !  " 

Then  they  turned  and  were  knit  together ;   and  oft  and 

o'er  again 
They  craved,  and  kissed  rejoicing,  and  their  hearts  were 

full  and  fain. 

Then  Sigurd  looketh  upon  her,  and  the  words  from  his 

heart  arise: 
"Thou  art  the  fairest  of  earth,  and  the  wisest  of  the  wise; 

0  who  art  thou  that  lovest?    I  am  Sigurd,  e'en  as  I  told; 

1  have  slain  the  Foe  of  the  Gods,  and  gotten  the  Ancient 

Gold; 
And  great  were  the  gain  of  thy  love,  and  the  gift  of  mine 

earthly  days, 
If  we  twain  should  never  sunder  as  we  wend  on  the 

changing  ways. 
0  who  art  thou  that  lovest,  thou  fairest  of  all  things 

born? 
And  what  meaneth  thy  sleep  and  thy  slumber  in  the 

wilderness  forlorn  ?  " 

She  said:   "I  am  she  that  loveth:   I  was  born  of  the 

earthly  folk, 
But  of  old  Allfather  took  me  from  the  Kings  and  their 

wedding  yoke : 
And  he  called  me  the  Victory- Wafter,  and  I  went  and 

came  as  he  would, 
And  I  chose  the  slain  for  his  war-host,  and  the  days  were 

glorious  and  good, 
Till  the  thoughts  of  my  heart  overcame  me,  and  the  pride 

of  my  wisdom  and  speech, 
And  I  scorned  the  earth-folk's  Framer  and  the  Lord  of 

the  world  I  must  teach : 
For  the  death-doomed  I  caught  from  the  sword,  and  the 

fated  life  I  slew, 
And  I  deemed  that  my  deeds  were  goodly,  and  that  long 

I  should  do  and  undo. 


BEGIN.  249 

But  Allfather  came  against  me  and  the  God  in  his  wrath 

arose ; 
And  he  cried :  '  Thou  hast  thought  in  thy  folly  that  the 

Gods  have  friends  and  foes, 
That  they  wake,  and  the  world  wends  onward,  that  they 

sleep,  and  the  world  slips  back, 
That  they  laugh,  and  the  world's  weal  waxeth,  that  they 

frown  and  fashion  the  wrack  : 
Thou  hast  cast  up  the  curse  against  me ;   it  shall  fall 

aback  on  thine  head; 
Go  back  to  the  sons  of  repentance,  with  the  children  of 

sorrow  wed ! 
For  the  Gods  are  great  unholpen,  and  their  grief  is  seldom 

seen, 
And  the  wrong  that  they  will  and  must  be  is  soon  as  it 

hath  not  been.' 

"  Yet  I  thought :  <  Shall  I  wed  in  the  world,  shall  I  gather 

grief  on  the  earth  ? 
Then  the  fearless  heart  shall  I  wed,  and  bring  the  best  to 

birth, 
And  fashion  such  tales  for  the  telling,  that  Earth  shall 

be  holpen  at  least, 
If  the  Gods  think  scorn  of  its  fairness,  as  they  sit  at  the 

changeless  feast.' 

"  Then  somewhat  smiled  Allfather ;  and  he  spake  :  '  So 

let  it  be ! 

The  doom  thereof  abideth ;  the  doom  of  me  and  thee. 
Yet  long  shall  the  time  pass  over  ere  thy  waking-day  be 

born: 
Fare  forth,  and  forget  and  be  weary  'neath  the  Sting  of 

the  Sleepf ul  Thorn ! ' 

"  So  I  came  to  the  head  of  Hindfell  and  the  ruddy  shields 

and  white, 
And  the  wall  of  the  wildfire  wavering  around  the  isle  of 

night ; 
And  there  the  Sleep-thorn  pierced  me,  and  the  slumber  on 

me  fell, 
And  the  night  of  nameless  sorrows  that  hath  no  tale  to 

tell. 


250  SIGURD   THE   VOLSUNG. 

Now  I  am  she  that  loveth;   and  the   day  is  nigh  at 

hand 
When  I,  who  have  ridden  the  sea-realm  and  the  regions  of 

the  land, 
And  dwelt  in  the  measureless  mountains  and  the  forge  of 

stormy  days, 
Shall  dwell  in  the  house  of  my  fathers  and  the  land  of  the 

people's  praise ; 
And  there  shall  hand  meet  hand,  and  heart  by  heart  shall 

beat, 

And  the  lying-down  shall  be  joyous,  and  the  morn's  up- 
rising sweet. 
Lo  now,  I  look  on  thine  heart  and  behold  of  thine  inmost 

will, 
That  thou  of  the  days  wouldst  hearken  that  our  portion 

shall  fulfil ; 
But  0,  be  wise  of  man-folk,  and  the  hope  of  thine  heart 

refrain ! 
As  oft  in  the  battle's  beginning  ye  vex  the  steed  with  the 

rein, 
Lest  at  last  in  its  latter  ending,  when  the  sword  hath 

hushed  the  horn, 
His  limbs  should  be  weary  and  fail,  and  his  might  be 

over-worn. 
0  be  wise,  lest  thy  love  constrain  me,  and  my  vision  wax 

o'er-clear, 
And  thou  ask  of  the  thing  that  thou  shouldst  not,  and  the 

thing  that  thou  wouldst  not  hear. 

"  Know  thou,  most  mighty  of  men,  that  the  Noras  shall 

order  all, 
And  yet  without  thine  helping  shall  no  whit  of  their  will 

befall ; 
Be  wise  !  't  is  a  marvel  of  words,  and  a  mock  for  the  fool 

and  the  blind ; 
But  I  saw  it  writ  in  the  heavens,  and  its  fashioning  there 

did  I  find: 
And  the  night  of  the  Noras  and  their  slumber,  and  the 

tide  when  the  world  runs  back, 
And  the  way  of  the  sun  is  tangled,  it  is  wrought  of  the 

dastard's  lack. 
But  the  day  when  the  fair  earth  blossoms,  and  the  sun  is 

bright  above, 


REGIN.  251 

Of  the  daring  deeds  is  it  fashioned  and  the  eager  hearts 
of  love. 

"  Be  wise,  and  cherish  thine  hope  in  the  freshness  of  the 

days, 
And  scatter  its  seed  from  thine  hand  in  the  field  of  the 

people's  praise ; 
Then  fair  shall  it  fall  in  the  furrow,  and  some  the  earth 

shall  speed, 
And  the  sons  of  men  shall  marvel  at  the  blossom  of  the 

deed: 
But  some  the  earth  shall  speed  not ;  nay  rather,  the  wind 

of  the  heaven 
Shall  waft  it  away  from  thy  longing  —  and  a  gift  to  the 

Gods  hast  thou  given, 
And  a  tree  for  the  roof  and  the  wall  in  the  house  of  the 

hope  that  shall  be, 
Though  it  seemeth  our  very  sorrow,  and  the  grief  of  thee 

and  me. 

"  Strive  not  with  the  fools  of  man-folk  :   for  belike  thou 

shalt  overcome ; 
And  what  then  is  the  gain  of  thine  hunting  when  thou 

bearest  the  quarry  home  ? 
Or  else  shall  the  fool  overcome  thee,  and  what  deed  thereof 

shall  grow  ? 
Nay,  strive  with  the  wise  man  rather,  and  increase  thy 

woe  and  his  woe  ; 
Yet  thereof  a  gain  hast  thou  gotten;  and  the  half  of 

thine  heart  hast  thou  won 
If  thou  mayst  prevail  against  him,  and  his  deeds  are  the 

deeds  thou  hast  done : 
Yea,  and  if  thou  fall  before  him,  in  him  shalt  thou  live 

again, 
And  thy  deeds  in  his  hand  shall  blossom,  and  his  heart 

of  thine  heart  shall  be  fain. 

"  When  thou  hearest  the  fool  rejoicing,  and  he  saith,  'It 

is  over  and  past, 
And  the  wrong  was  better  than  right,  and  hate  turns  into 

love  at  the  last, 
And  we  strove  for  nothing  at  all,  and  the  Gods  are  fallen 

asleep ; 


252  SIGURD  THE  VOLSUNG. 

For  so  good  is  the  world  argrowing  that  the  evil  good 

shall  reap:' 
Then  loosen  thy  sword  in  the  scabbard  and  settle  the 

helm  on  thine  head, 
For  men  betrayed  are  mighty,  and  great  are  the  wrong- 

fully dead. 

"  Wilt  thou  do  the  deed  and  repent  it  ?  thou  hadst  better 

never  been  born  : 
Wilt  thou  do  the  deed  and  exalt  it  ?  then  thy  fame  shall 

be  outworn  : 
Thou  shalt  do  the  deed  and  abide  it,  and  sit  on  thy 

throne  on  high, 
And  look  on  to-day  and  to-morrow  as  those  that  never  die. 

"Love  thou  the  Gods  —  and  withstand  them,  lest  thy 

fame  should  fail  in  the  end, 
And  thou  be  but  their  thrall  and  their  bondsman,  who 

wert  born  for  their  very  friend  : 
For  few  things  from  the  Gods  are  hidden,  and  the  hearts 

of  men  they  know, 
And  how  that  none  rejoiceth  to  quail  and  crouch  alow. 

"I  have  spoken  the  words,  beloved,  to  thy  matchless 


glory  and  worth  ; 
th 


But  thy  heart  to  my  heart  hath  been  speaking,  though  my 

tongue  hath  set  it  forth  : 
For  I  am  she  that  loveth,  and  I  know  what  thou  wouldst 

teach 
From  the  heart  of  thine  unlearned  wisdom,  and  I  needs 

must  speak  thy  speech." 

Then  words  were  weary  and  silent,  but  oft  -and  o'er  again 
They  craved  and  kissed  rejoicing,  and  their  hearts  were 
full  and  fain. 

Then  spake  the  Son  of  Sigmund  :  "  Fairest,  and  most  of 

worth, 
Hast  thou  seen  the  ways  of  man-folk  and  the  regions  of 

the  earth  ? 
Then  speak  yet  more  of  wisdom  ;  for  most  meet  meseems 

it  is 
That  my  soul  to  thy  soul  be  shapen,  and  that  I  should 

know  thy  bliss." 


REGIN.  253 

So  she  took  his  right  hand  meekly,  nor  any  word  would  say, 

Not  e'en  of  love  or  praising,  his  longing  to  delay  ; 

And  they  sat  on  the  side  of  Hindfell,  and  their  fain  eyes 

looked  and  loved, 
As  she  told  of  the  hidden  matters  whereby  the  world  is 

moved : 
And  she  told  of  the  framing  of  all  things,  and  the  houses 

of  the  heaven ; 
And  she  told  of  the  star-worlds'  courses,  and  how  the 

winds  be  driven ; 
And  she  told  of  the  Norns  and  their  names,  and  the  fate 

that  abideth  the  earth ; 
And  she  told  of  the  ways  of  King-folk  in  their  anger  and 

their  mirth; 
And  she  spake  of  the  love  of  women,  and  told  of  the 

flame  that  burns, 
And  the  fall  of  mighty  houses,  and  the  friend  that  falters 

and  turns, 
And  the  lurking  blinded  vengeance,  and  the  wrong  that 

amendeth  wrong, 
And  the  hand  that  repenteth  its  stroke,  and  the  grief 

that  endureth  for  long ; 
And  how  man  shall  bear  and  forbear,  and  be  master  of 

all  that  is ; 
And  how  man  shall  measure  it  all,  the  wrath,  and  the 

grief,  and  the  bliss. 

"  I  saw  the  body  of  Wisdom,  and  of  shifting  guise  was 

she  wrought, 
And  I  stretched  out  my  hands  to  hold  her,  and  a  mote  of 

the  dust  they  caught ; 
And  I  prayed  her  to  come  for  my  teaching,  and  she 

came  in  the  midnight  dream  — 
And  I  woke  and  might  not  remember,  nor  betwixt  her 

tangle  deem: 
She  spake,  and  how  might  I  hearken ;  I  heard,  and  how 

might  I  know; 
I  knew,  and  how  might  I  fashion,  or  her  hidden  glory 

show? 
All  things  I  have  told  thee  of  Wisdom  are  but  fleeting 

images 
Of  her  hosts  that  abide  in  the  heavens,  and  her  light 

that  Allfather  sees: 


254  SIGURD   THE   VOLSUNG. 

Yet  wise  is  the  sower  that  sows,  and  wise  is  the  reaper 

that  reaps, 
And  wise  is  the  smith  in  his  smiting,  and  wise  is  the 

warder  that  keeps: 
And  wise  shalt  thou  be  to  deliver,  and  I  shall  be  wise  to 

desire ; 
—  And  lo,  the  tale  that  is  told,  and  the  sword  and  the 

wakening  fire ! 
Lo  now,  I  am  she  that  loveth,  and  hark  how  Greyfell 

neighs, 

And  Fafnir's  Bed  is  gleaming,  and  green  go  the  down- 
ward ways, 
The  road  to  the  children  of  men  and  the  deeds  that  thou 

shalt  do 
In  the  joy  of  thy  life-days'  morning,  when  thine  hope  is 

fashioned  anew. 

Come  now,  O  Bane  of  the  Serpent,  for  now  is  the  high- 
noon  come, 
And  the  sun  hangeth  over  Hindfell  and  looks  011  the 

earth-folk's  home; 
But  the  soul  is  so  great  within  thee,  and  so  glorious  are 

thine  eyes, 
And  me  so  love  constraineth,  and  mine  heart  that  was 

called  the  wise, 
That  we  twain  may  see  men's  dwellings  and  the  house 

where  we  shall  dwell, 
And  the  place  of  our  life's  beginning,  where  the  tale 

shall  be  to  tell." 

So  they  climb  the  burg  of  Hindfell,  and  hand  in  hand 

they  fare, 
Till  all  about  and  above  them  is  nought  but  the  sunlit 

air, 
And  there  close  they  cling  together  rejoicing  in  their 

mirth ; 
For  far  away  beneath  them  lie  the  kingdoms  of  the 

earth, 
And  the  garths  of  men-folk's  dwellings  and  the  streams 

that  water  them, 
And  the  rich  and  plenteous  acres,  and  the  silver  ocean's 

hem, 
And  the  woodland  wastes  and  the  mountains,  and  all 

thatholdeth  all; 


REGIN.  255 

\ 
The  house  and  the  ship  and  the  island,  the  loom  and  the 

mine  and  the  stall, 
The  beds  of  bane  and  healing,  the  crafts  that  slay  and 

save, 
The  temple  of  God  and  the  Doom-ring,  the  cradle  and  the 

grave. 

Then  spake  the  Victory-Wafter :  "  0  King  of  the  Earthly 

Age, 
As  a  God  thou  beholdest  the  treasure  and  the  joy   of 

thine  heritage, 
And  where  on  the  wings  of  his  hope  is  the   spirit  of 

Sigurd  borne? 

Yet  I  bid  thee  hover  awhile  as  a  lark  alow  on  the  corn ; 
Yet  I  bid  thee  look  on  the  land  'twixt  the  wood  and  the 

silver  sea 
In  the  bight  of  the  swirling  river,  and  the  house  that 

cherished  me ! 
There  dwelleth  mine  earthly  sister  and  the  King  that  she 

hath  wed ; 
There  morn  by  morn  aforetime  I  woke  on  the  golden 

bed; 
There  eve  by  eve  I  tarried  mid  the  speech  and  the  lays  of 

Kings; 

There  noon  by  noon  I  wandered  and  plucked  the  blossom- 
ing things ; 

The  little  land  of  Lymdale  by  the  swirling  river's  side, 
Where  Brynhild  once  was  I  called  in  the  days  ere  my 

father  died; 
The  little  land  of  Lymdale  'twixt  the  woodland  and  the 

sea, 
Where  on  thee  mine  eyes  shall  brighten  and  thine  eyes 

shall  beam  on  me." 

"I  shall  seek  thee  there,"  said  Sigurd,  "when  the  day- 
spring  is  begun, 

Ere  we  wend  the  world  together  in  the  season  of  the 
sun." 

"I  shall  bide  thee  there,"  said  Brynhild,  "till  the  fulness 

of  the  days, 
And  the  time  for  the  glory  appointed,  and  the  springiug- 

tide  of  praise." 


256  SIGURD   THE  VOLSUNG. 

From  his  hand  then  draweth  Sigurd  Andvari's  Ancient 

Gold; 
There  is  nought  but  the  sky  above  them  as  the  ring 

together  they  hold, 
The  shapen  ancient  token,   that  hath  no  change  nor 

end, 

No  change,  and  no  beginning,  no  flaw  for  God  to  mend : 
Then  Sigurd  cries :  "  0  Brynhild,  now  hearken  while  I 

swear, 
That  the  sun  shall  die  in  the  heavens  and  the  day  no 

more  be  fair, 
If  I  seek  not  love  in  Lymdale  and  the  house  that  fostered 

thee, 
And  the  land  where  thou  awakedst  'twixt  the  woodland 

and  the  sea ! " 

And  she  cried :  "  0  Sigurd,  Sigurd,  now  hearken  while  I 

swear 
That  the  day  shall  die  for  ever  and  the  sun  to  blackness 

wear, 

Ere  I  forget  thee,  Sigurd,  as  I  lie  'twixt  wood  and  sea 
In  the  little  land  of  Lymdale  and  the  house  that  fostered 

me!" 
Then  he  set  the  ring  on  her  finger  and  once,  if  ne'er 

again, 
They  kissed  and  clung  together,  and  their  hearts  were 

full  and  fain. 

So  the  day  grew  old  about  them  and  the  joy  of  their 

desire, 
And  eve  and  the  sunset  came,  and  faint  grew  the  sunset 

fire, 
And  the  shadowless  death  of  the  day  was  sweet  in  the 

golden  tide ; 
But  the  stars  shone  forth  on  the  world,  and  the  twilight 

changed  and  died ; 
And  sure  if  the  first  of  man-folk  had  been  born  to  that 

starry  night, 
And  had  heard  no  tale  of  the  sunrise,  he  had  never  longed 

for  the  light ; 
But  Earth  longed  amidst  her  slumber,  as  'neath  the  night 

she  lay, 
And  fresh  and  all  abundant  abode  the  deeds  of  Day. 


BRYNHILD.  257 


BKYNHILD. 

HOW   SlGUBD   MET   BRYNHILD   IN   LYMDALE.29 

So  there  abideth  Sigurd  with  the  Lymdale  forest-lords 

In  mighty  honour  holden,  and  in  love  beyond  all  words, 

And  thence  abroad  through  the  people  there  goeth  a 
rumour  and  breath 

Of  the  great  Gold-wallower's  slaying,  and  the  tale  of  the 
Glittering  Heath, 

And  a  word  of  the  Ancient  Treasure  and  Greyf  ell's  gleam- 
ing Load ; 

And  the  hearts  of  men  grew  eager,  and  the  coming  deeds 
abode. 

But  warily  dealeth  Sigurd,  and  he  wends  in  the  wood- 
land fray 

As  one  whose  heart  is  ready  and  abides  a  better  day : 

In  the  woodland  fray  he  fareth,  and  oft  on  a  day  doth 
ride 

Where  the  mighty  forest  wild-bulls  and  the  lonely  wolves 
abide ; 

For  as  then  no  other  warfare  do  the  lords  of  Lymdale 
know, 

And  the  axe-age  and  the  sword-age  seem  dead  a  while  ago, 

And  the  age  of  the  cleaving  of  shields,  and  of  brother  by 
brother  slain, 

And  the  bitter  days  of  the  whoredom,  and  the  hardened 
lust  of  gain ; 

But  man  to  man  may  hearken,  and  he  that  soweth  reaps, 

And  hushed  is  the  heart  of  Fenrir  in  the  wolf-den  of  the 


Now  is  it  the  summer-season,  and  Sigurd  rideth  the  land, 
And  his  hound  runs  light  before  him,  and  his  hawk  sits 

light  on  his  hand, 

And  all  alone  on  a  morning  he  rides  the  flowery  sward 
Betwixt  the  woodland  dwellings  and  the  house  of  Lym- 

dale's  lord; 
And  he  hearkens  Greyf  ell's  going  as  he  wends  adown  the 

lea, 


258  SIGURD   THE  VOLSUNG. 

And  his  heart  for  love  is  craving,  and  the  deeds  he  deems 

shall  be; 
And  he  hears  the  Wrath's  sheath  tinkling  as  he  rides  the 

daisies  down, 
And  he  thinks  of  his  love  laid  safely  in  the  arms  of  his 

renown. 

But  lo,  as  he  rides  the  meadows,  before  him  now  he  sees 
A  builded  burg  arising  amid  the  leafy  trees, 
And  a  white-walled  house  on  its  topmost  with  a  golden 

roof-ridge  done, 
And  thereon  the  clustering  dove-kind  in  the  brightness 

of  the  sun. 

So  Sigurd  stayed  to  behold  it,  for  the  heart  within  him 

laughed, 
But  e'en  then,  as  the  arrow  speedeth  from  the  mighty 

archer's  draught, 
Forth  fled  the  falcon  unhooded  from  the  hand  of  Sigurd 

the  King, 
And  up,  and  over  the  tree-boughs  he  shot  with  steady 

wing: 
Then  the  Volsung  followed  his  flight,  for  he  looked  to 

see  him  fall 
On  the  fluttering  folk  of  the  doves,  and  he  cried  the 

backward  call 

Full  oft  and  over  again ;  but  the  falcon  heeded  it  nought, 
Nor  turned  to  his  kingly  wrist-perch,  nor  the  folk  of  the 

pigeons  sought, 
But  flew  up  to  a  high-built  tower,  and  sat  in  the  window 

a  space, 
Crying  out  like  the  fowl  of  Odin  when  the  first  of  the 

morning  they  face, 
And  then  passed  through  the  open  casement  as  an  erne 

to  his  eyrie  goes. 

Much  marvelled  the  Son  of  Sigmund,  and  rode  to  the 

fruitful  close : 
For  he  said:  Here  a  great  one  dwelleth,  though  none 

have  told  me  thereof, 
And  he  shall  give  me  my  falcon,  and  his  fellowship  and 

love. 
So  he  came  to  the  gate  of  the  garth,  and  forth  to  the 

hall-door  rode, 


BRYNHILD.  259 

And  leapt  adown  from  Greyfell,  and  entered  that  fair 

abode ; 

For  full  lovely  was  it  fashioned,  and  great  was  the  pil- 
lared hall, 
And  fair  in  its  hangings  were  woven  the  deeds  that 

Kings  befall, 
And  the  merry  sun  went  through  it  and  gleamed  in  gold 

and  horn ; 
But  afield  or  a-fell  are  its  carles,  and  none  labour  there 

that  morn, 
And  void  it  is  of  the  maidens,  and  they  weave  in  the 

bower  aloft, 
Or  they  go  in  the  outer  gardens  'twixt  the  rose  and  the 

lily  soft : 
So  saith  Sigurd  the  Volsung,  and  a  door  in  the  corner  he 

spies 

With  knots  of  gold  fair-carven,  and  the  graver's  mas- 
teries : 
So  he  lifts  the  latch  and  it  opens,  and  he  comes  to  a 

marble  stair, 
And  aloft  by  the  same  he  goeth  through  a  tower  wrought 

full  fair. 
And  he  comes  to  a  door  at  its  topmost,  and  lo,  a  chamber 

of  Kings 
And  his  falcon  there  by  the  window  with  all  unruffled 

wings. 

But  a  woman  sits  on  the  high-seat  with  gold  about  her 

head, 
And  ruddy  rings  on  her  arms,  and  the  grace  of  her 

girdle-stead ; 
And  sunlit  is  her  rippled  linen,  and  the  green  leaves  lie 

at  her  feet, 
And  e'en  as  a  swan  on  the  billow  where  the  firth  and  the 

out-sea  meet, 
On  the  dark-blue  cloths  she  sitteth,  so  fair  and  softly 

made 
Are  her  limbs  by  the  linen  hidden,  and  so  white  is  she 

arrayed. 

But  a  web  of  gold  is  before  her,  and  therein  by  her  shut- 
tle wrought 
The  early  days  of  the  Volsungs  and  the  war  by  the  sea's 

rim  fought, 


260  SIGURD   THE  VOLSUNG. 

And  the  crowned  queen  over  Sigmund,  and  the  Helper's 

pillared  hall, 

And  the  golden  babe  uplifted  to  the  eyes  of  duke  and  thrall ; 
And  there  was  the  slender  stripling  by  the  knees  of  the 

Dwarf-folk's  lord, 
And  the  gift  of  the  ancient  Gripir,  and  the  forging  of  the 

Sword ; 
And  there  were  the  coils  of  Fafnir,  and  the  hooded  threat 

of  death, 
And  the  King  by  the  cooking-fire,  and  the  fowl  of  the 

Glittering  Heath ; 
And  there  was  the  headless  King-smith  and  the  golden 

halls  of  the  Worm, 
And  the  laden   Greyfell  faring  through  the    land   of 

perished  storm ; 
And  there  was  the  head  of  Hindfell,  and  the  flames  to 

the  sky-floor  driven ; 
And  there  was  the  glittering  Shield-burg,  and  the  fallow 

bondage  riven ; 
And  there  was  the  wakening  woman  and  the   golden 

Volsung  done, 
And  they  twain  o'er  the  earthly  kingdoms  in  the  lonely 

evening  sun : 
And  there  were  fells  and  forests,  and  towns  and  tossing 

seas, 
And  the  Wrath  and  the  golden  Sigurd  for  ever  blent 

with  these, 
In  the  midst  of  the  battle  triumphant,  in  the  midst  of  the 

war-kings'  fall, 
In  the  midst  of  the  peace  well-conquered,  in  the  midst  of 

the  praising  hall. 

There  Sigurd  stood  and  marvelled,  for  he  saw  his  deeds 
that  had  been, 

And  his  deeds  of  the  days  that  should  be,  fair-wrought  in 
the  golden  sheen ; 

And  he  looked  in  the  face  of  the  woman,  and  Brynhild's 
eyes  he  knew, 

But  still  in  the  door  he  tarried,  and  so  glad  and  fair  he  grew, 

That  the  Gods  laughed  out  in  the  heavens  to  see  the 
Volsung's  seed; 

And  the  breeze  blew  in  from  the  summer  and  over  Bryn- 
hild's weed, 


BRYNHILD.  261 

Till  his  heart  so  swelled  with  the  sweetness  that  the  fair 

word  stayed  in  his  mouth, 
And  a  marvel  beloved  he  seemeth,  as  a  ship  new-come 

from  the  south: 
And  still  she  longed  and  beheld  him,  nor  foot  nor  hand 

she  moved 
As  she  marvelled  at  her  gladness,  and  her  love  so  well 

beloved. 

But  at  last  through  the  sounds  of  summer  the  voice  of 

Sigurd  came, 
And  it  seemed  as  a  silver  trumpet  from  the  house  of  the 

fateful  fame ; 
And  he  spake :  "  Hail,  lady  and  queen !  Hail,  fairest  of 

all  the  earth ! 
Is  it  well  with  the  hap  of  thy  life-days,  and  thy  kin  and 

the  house  of  thy  birth  ?  " 

She  said :  "  My  kin  is  joyous,  and  my  house  is  blooming 

fair, 
And  dead,  both  root  and  branches,  is  the  tree  of  their 

travail  and  care." 

He  spake :  "  I  have  longed,  I  have  wondered  if  thy  heart 

were  well  at  ease, 
If  the  hope  of  thy  days  had  blossomed  and  borne  thee 

fair  increase." 

"  0  have  thou  thanks,"  said  Brynhild,  "  for  thine  heart 

that  speaketh  kind ! 
Yea,  the  hope  of  my  days  is  accomplished,  and  no  more 

there  is  to  find." 

And  again  she  spake  in  a  space :  "  The  road  hath  been 

weary  and  long, 
But  well  hast  thou  ridden  it,  Sigurd,  and  the  sons  of  God 

are  strong." 

He  said :   "  I  have  sought,  0  Brynhild,  and  found  the 

heart  of  thine  home; 
And  no  man  hath  asked  or  holpen,  and  all  unbidden  I 

come." 


262  SIGURD   THE   VOLSUNG. 

She  said :  "  0  welcome  hither !  for  the  heart  of  the  King 

I  knew, 
And  thine  hope  that  overcometh,  and  thy  will  that  nought 

shall  undo." 

"  Unbidden  I  came,"  he  answered,  "  yet  it  is  but  a  little 

space 
Since  I  heard  thy  voice  on  the  mountain,  and  thy  kind 

lips  cherished  my  face." 

She  rose  from  the  dark-blue  raiment,  and  trembling  there 

she  stood, 
And  no  word  her  lips  had  gotten  that  her  heart  might 

deem  it  good : 
And  his  heart  went  forth  to  meet  her,  yet  nought  he 

moved  for  a  while, 
Until  the   God-kin's   laughter  brake   blooming  from  a 

smile 
And  he  cried :  "  It  is  good,  0  Brynhild,  that  we  draw 

exceeding  near, 
Lest  Odin  mock  Kings'  children  that  the  doom  of  fate 

they  fear." 

Then  forth  she  stepped  from  the  high-seat,  and  forth  from 

the  threshold  he  came, 
Till  both  their  bodies  mingling  seemed  one  glory  and  the 

same, 
And  far  o'er  all  fulfilment  did  the  souls  within  them 

long, 
As  at  breast  and  at  lips  of  the  faithful  the  earthly  love 

strained  strong; 
And  fresh  from  the  deeps  of  the  summer  the  breeze  across 

them  blew, 
But  nought  of  the  earth's  desire,  or  the  lapse  of  time  they 

knew. 

Then  apart,  but  exceeding  nigh,  for  a  little  while  they 

stand, 
Till  Brynhild  toucheth  her  lord,  and  taketh  his  hand  in 

her  hand, 
And  she  leadeth  him  through  the  chamber,  and  sitteth 

down  in  her  seat; 
And  him  she  setteth  beside  her,  and  she  paith  : 


BRYNHILD.  263 

"  It  is  right  and  meet 
That  thou  sit  in  this  throne  of  my  fathers,  since  thy  gift 

to-day  I  have : 
Thou  hast  given  it  altogether,  nor  ought  from  me  wouldst 

save; 
And  thou  knowest  the  tale  of  women,  how  oft  it  haps  on 

a  day 
That  of  such  gifts  men  repent  them,  and  their  lives  are 

cast  away." 

He  said :  "  I  have  cast  it  away  as  the  tiller  casteth  the 

seed, 
That  the  summer  may  better  the  spring-tide,  and  the 

autumn  winter's  need : 
For  what  were  the  fruit  of  our  lives  if  apart  they  needs 

must  pass, 
And  men  shall  say  hereafter :  Woe  worth  the  hope  that 

was!" 

She  said :  "  That  day  shall  dawn  the  best  of  all  earthly 

days 
When  we  sit,  we  twain,  in  the  high-seat  in  the  hall  of  the 

people's  praise: 
Or  else,  what  fruit  of  our  life-days,  what  fruit  of  our 

death  shall  be? 
What  fruit,  save  men's  remembrance  of  the  grief  of  thee 

and  me  ?  " 

He  said :  "  It  is  sharper  to  bear  than  the  bitter  sword  in 

the  breast. 
0  woe,  to  think  of  it  now  in  the  days  of  our  gleaning  of 

rest ! " 

Said  Brynhild :  "  I  bid  thee  remember  the  word  that  I 

have  sworn, 
How  the  sun  shall  turn  to  blackness,  and  the  last  day  be 

outworn 
Ere  I  forget  thee,  Sigurd,  and  the  kindness  of  thy  face." 

And  they  kissed  and  the  day  grew  later  and  noon  failed 

the  golden  place. 

But  Sigurd  said :  "  0  Brynhild,  remember  how  I  swore 
That  the  sun  should  die  in  the  heavens  and  day  come 

back  no  more, 


264  SIGURD   THE   VOLSUNG. 

Ere  I  forget  thy  wisdom  and  thine  heart  of  inmost  love. 

Lo  now,  shall  I  unsay  it,  though  the  Gods  be  great 
above, 

Though  my  life  should  last  for  ever,  though  I  die  to-mor- 
row morn, 

Though  I  win  the  realm  of  the  world,  though  I  sink  to 
the  thrall-folk's  scorn?" 

She  said :  "  Thou  shalt  never  unsay  it,  and  thy  heart  is 

mine  indeed : 
Thou  shalt  bear  my  love  in  thy  bosom  as  thou  helpest  the 

earth-folk's  need : 
Thou  shalt  wake  to  it  dawning  by  dawning;  thou  shalt 

sleep  and  it  shall  not  be  strange : 
There  is  none  shall  thrust  between  us  till  our  earthly  lives 

shall  change. 
Ah,  my  love  shall  fare  as  a  banner  in  the  hand  of  thy 

renown, 
In  the  arms  of  thy  fame  accomplished  shall  it  lie  when 

we  lay  us  adown. 

0  deathless  fame  of  Sigurd !  0  glory  of  my  lord  ! 
0  birth  of  the  happy  Brynhild  to  the  measureless  re- 
ward!" 

So  they  sat  as  the  day  grew  dimmer,  and  they  looked  on 

days  to  come, 
And  the  fair  tale  speeding  onward,  and  the  glories  of  their 

home; 
And  they  saw  their  crowned  children  and  the  kindred  of 

the  Kings, 
And  deeds  in  the  world  arising  and  the  day  of  better 

things : 
All  the  earthly  exaltation,  till  their  pomp  of  life  should 

be  passed, 
And  soft  on  the  bosom  of  God  their  love  should  be  laid 

at  the  last. 

But  when  words  have  a  long  while  failed  them,  and  the 

night  is  nigh  at  hand, 
They  arise  in  the  golden  glimmer,  and  apart  and  anigh 

they  stand : 
Then  Brynhild  stooped  to  the  Wrath,  and  touched  the 

hilts  of  the  sword, 


BRYNHILD.  265 

Ere  she  wound  her  arms  round  Sigurd  and  cherished  the 

lips  of  her  lord: 
Then  sweet  were  the  tears  of  Brynhild,  and  fast  and  fast 

they  fell, 
And  the  love  that  Sigurd  uttered,  what  speech  of  song 

may  tell? 

But  he  turned  and  departed  from  her,  and  her  feet  on  the 

threshold  abode 
As  he  went  through  the  pillared  feast-hall,  and  forth  to 

the  night  he  rode: 
So  he  turned  toward  the  dwelling  of  Heimir,  and  his  love 

and  his  fame  seemed  one, 
And  all  full-well  accomplished,  what  deeds  soe'er  were 

done; 
And  the  love  that  endureth  for  ever,  and  the  endless  hope 

he  bore, 
As  he  faced  the  change  of  heaven  and  the  chance  of 

worldly  war. 

OF  THE  PASSING  AWAY  OF  BRYNHILD.SO 

Once  more  on  the  morrow-morning  fair  shineth  the  glori- 
ous sun, 
And  the  Niblung  children  labour  on  a  deed  that  shall  be 

done. 
For  out  in  the  people's  meadows  they  raise  a  bale  on 

high, 
The  oak  and  the  ash  together,  and  thereon  shall   the 

Mighty  lie; 
Nor  gold  nor  steel  shall  be  lacking,  nor  savour  of  sweet 

spice, 
Nor  cloths  in  the  Southlands  woven,  nor  webs  of  untold 

price : 
The  work  grows,  toil  is  as  nothing ;  long  blasts  of  the 

mighty  horn 
From    the  topmost  tower  out- wailing  o'er  the  woeful 

world  are  borne. 

But  Brynhild  lay  in  her  chamber,  and  her  women  went 

and  came, 
And  they  feared  and  trembled  before  her,  and  none  spake 

Sigurd's  name ; 


266  SIGURD   THE   VOLSUNG. 

But  whiles  they  deemed  her  weeping,  and  whiles  they 

deemed  indeed 
That  she  spake,  if  they  might  but  hearken,  but  no  words 

their  ears  might  heed ; 
Till  at  last  she  spake  out  clearly: 

"  I  know  not  what  ye  would ; 
For  ye  come  and  go  in  my  chamber,  and  ye  seem  of 

wavering  mood 

To  thrust  me  on,  or  to  stay  me  ;  to  help  my  heart  in  woe, 
Or  to  bid  my  days  of  sorrow  midst  nameless  folly  go." 

None  answered  the  word  of  Brynhild,  none  knew  of  her 

intent ; 
But  she  spake :  "  Bid  hither  Gunnar,  lest  the  sun  sink 

o'er  the  bent, 
And  leave  the  words  unspoken  I  yet  have  will  to  speak." 

Then  her  maidens  go  from  before  her,  and  that  lord  of 

war  they  seek, 

And  he  stands  by  the  bed  of  Brynhild  and  strives  to  en- 
treat and  beseech, 
But  her  eyes  gaze  awfully  on  him,  and  his  lips  may  learn 

no  speech. 
And  she  saith : 

"  I  slept  in  the  morning,  or  I  dreamed  in 

the  waking-hour, 
And  my  dream  was  of  thee,  0  Gunnar,  and  the  bed  in  thy 

kingly  bower, 
And  the  house  that  I  blessed  in  my  sorrow,  and  cursed 

in  my  sorrow  and  shame, 
The  gates  of  an  ancient  people,  the  towers  of  a  mighty 

name: 
King,  cold  was  the  hall  I  have  dwelt  in,  and  no  brand 

burned  on  the  hearth ; 
Dead-cold  was  thy  bed,  0  Gunnar,   and  thy  land  was 

parched  with  dearth : 

But  I  saw  a  great  King  riding,  and  a  master  of  the  harp, 
And  he  rode  amidst  the  foemen,  and  the  swords  were 

bitter-sharp, 
But  his  hand  in  the  hand-gyves  smote  not,  and  his  feet 

in  the  fetters  were  fast, 
While  many  a  word  of  mocking  at  his  speechless  face  was 

cast. 


BRYNHILD.  267 

Then  I  heard  a  voice  in  the  world :  '  0  woe  for  the  broken 
troth, 

And  the  heavy  Need  of  the  Niblungs,  and  the  Sorrow  of 
Odin  the  Goth ! 

Then  I  saw  the  halls  of  the  strangers,  and  the  hills,  and 
the  dark-blue  sea, 

Nor  knew  of  their  names  and  their  nations,  for  earth  was 
afar  from  me, 

But  brother  rose  up  against  brother,  and  blood  swam  over 
the  board, 

And  women  smote  and  spared  not,  and  the  fire  was  mas- 
ter and  lord. 

Then,  then  was  the  moonless  mid-mirk,  and  I  woke  to  the 
day  and  the  deed, 

The  deed  that  earth  shall  name  not,  the  day  of  its  bitter- 
est need. 

Many  words  have  I  said  in  my  life-days,  and  little  more 
shall  I  say : 

Ye  have  heard  the  dream  of  a  woman,  deal  with  it  as  ye 
may: 

For  meseems  the  world-ways  sunder,  and  the  dusk  and 
the  dark  is  mine, 

Till  I  come  to  the  hall  of  Freyia,  where  the  deeds  of  the 
Mighty  shall  shine.' " 

So  hearkened  Gunnar  the  Niblung,  that  her  words  he 

understood, 
And  he  knew  she  was  set  on  the  death-stroke,  and  he 

deemed  it  nothing  good : 
But  he  said :  "  I  have  hearkened,  and  heeded  thy  death 

and  mine  in  thy  words : 
I  have  done  the  deed  and  abide  it,  and  my  face  shall 

laugh  on  the  swords ; 
But  thee,  woman,  I  bid  thee  abide  here  till  thy  grief  of 

soul  abate ; 

Meseems  nought  lowly  nor  shameful  shall  be  the  Nib- 
lung  fate ; 
And  here  shalt  thou  rule  and  be  mighty,  and  be  Queen  of 

the  measureless  Gold, 
And  abase  the  Kings  and  upraise  them ;  and  anew  shall 

thy  fame  be  told, 
And  as  fair  shall  thy  glory  blossom  as  the  fresh  fields 

under  the  spring." 


268  SIGURD  THE   VOLSUNG. 

Then  he  casteth  his  arms  about  her,  and  hot  is  the  heart 

of  the  King 
For  the  glory  of  Queen  Brynhild  and  the  hope  of  her 

days  of  gain, 
And  he  clean  forgetteth  Sigurd  and  the  foster-brother 

slain : 
But  she  shrank  aback  from  before  him,  and  cried :  "  Woe 

worth  the  while 
For  the  thoughts  ye  drive  back  on  me,  and  the  memory 

of  your  guile  ! 
The  Kings  of  Earth  were  gathered;  the  wise  of  men  were 

met ; 
On  the  death  of  a  woman's  pleasure  their  glorious  hearts 

were  set, 

And  I  was  alone  amidst  them — Ah,  hold  thy  peace  hereof! 
Lest  the  thought  of  the  bitterest  hours  this  little  hour 
.     should  move." 

He  rose  abashed  from  before  her,  and  yet  he  lingered 

there ; 
Then  she  said :  "  0  King  of  the  Niblungs,  what  noise  do 

I  hearken  and  hear  ? 
Why  ring  the  axes  and  hammers,  while  feet  of  men  go 

past, 
And  shields  from  the  wall  are  shaken,  and  swords  on  the 

pavement  cast, 
And  the  door  of  the  treasure  is  opened,  and  the  horn 

cries  loud  and  long, 
And  the  feet  of  the  Niblung  children  to  the  people's 

meadows  throng  ?  " 

His  face  was  troubled  before  her,  and  again  she  spake 

and  said : 

"  Meseemeth  this  is  the  hour  when  men  array  the  dead ; 
Wilt  thou  tell  me  tidings,  Gunnar,  that  the  children  of 

thy  folk 
Pile  up  the  bale  for  Guttorm,  and  the  hand  that  smote 

the  stroke  ?  " 

He  said :  "  It  is  not  so,  Brynhild ;  for  that  Giuki's  son 

was  burned 
When  the  moon  of  the  middle  heaven  last  night  toward 

dawning  turned." 


BRYNHILD.  269 

They  looked  on  each  other  and  spake  not;  but  Gunnar 

gat  him  gone, 

And  came  to  his  brother  Hogni,  the  wise-heart  Giuki's  son, 
And  spake  :  "  Thou  art  wise,  0  Hogni ;  go  in  to  Brynhild 

the  Queen, 
And  stay  her  swift  departing ;  or  the  last  of  her  days 

hath  she  seen." 

"  It  is  nought,  thy  word,"  said  Hogni ;  "  wilt  thou  bring 

dead  men  aback, 
Or  the  souls  of  Kings  departed  midst  the  battle  and  the 

wrack? 
Yet  this  shall  be  easier  to  thee  than  the  turning  Bryn- 

hild's  heart ; 

She  came  to  dwell  among  us,  but  in  us  she  had  no  part ; 
Let  her  go  her  ways  from  the  Niblungs  with  her  hand  in 

Sigurd's  hand. 
Will  the  grass  grow  up  henceforward  where  her  feet  have 

trodden  the  land  ?  " 

"  0  evil  day,"  said  Gunnar,  "  when  my  Queen  must  per- 
ish and  die ! " 

"  Such  oft  betide,"  saith  Hogni,  "  as  the  lives  of  men 

flit  by; 
But  the  evil  day  is  a  day,  and  on  each  day  groweth  a 

deed, 
And  a  thing  that  never  dieth ;  and  the  fateful  tale  shall 

speed. 
Lo  now,  let  us  harden  our  hearts  and  set  our  brows  as 

the  brass, 
Lest  men  say  it,  '  They  loathed  the  evil  and  they  brought 

the  evil  to  pass.'  " 

So  they  spake,  and  their  hearts  were  heavy,  and  they 

longed  for  the  morrow  morn, 
And  the  morrow  of  to-morrow,  and  the  new  day  yet  to  be 

born. 

But  Brynhild  cried  to  her  maidens :  "Now  open  ark  and 

chest, 
And  draw  forth  queenly  raiment  of  the  loveliest  and  the 

best, 


270  SIGURD   THE   VOL  SUNG. 

Bed  rings  that  the  Dwarf-lords  fashioned,  fair  cloths 

that  the  Queens  have  sewed 
To  array  the  bride  for  the  mighty,  and  the  traveller  for 

the  road." 

They  wept  as  they  wrought  her  bidding  and  did  on  her 

goodliest  gear  ; 
But  she  laughed  mid  the  dainty  linen,  and  the  gold-rings 

fashioned  fair : 
She  arose  from  the  bed  of  the  Niblungs,  and  her  face  no 

more  was  wan ; 
As  a  star  in  the  dawn-tide  heavens,  mid  the  dusky  house 

she  shone : 
And  they  that  stood  about  her,  their  hearts  were  raised 

aloft 
Amid  their  fear  and  wonder:  then  she  spake  them  kind 

and  soft : 

"Now  give  me    the   sword,   O  maidens,  wherewith  I 

sheared  the  wind 
When  the  Kings  of  Earth  were  gathered  to  know  the 

Chooser's  mind." 

All  sheathed  the  maidens  brought  it,  and  feared  the  hid- 
den blade, 

But  the  naked  blue- white  edges  across  her  knees  she  laid, 
And  spake :  "  The  heaped-up  riches,  the  gear  my  fathers 

left, 

All  dear-bought  woven  wonders,  all  rings  from  battle  reft, 
All  goods  of  men  desired,  now  strew  them  on  the  floor, 
And  so  share  among  you,  maidens,  the  gifts  of  Brynhild's 
store." 

They  brought  them  mid  their  weeping,  but  none  put  forth 

a  hand 

To  take  that  wealth  desired,  the  spoils  of  many  a  land : 
There  they  stand  and  weep  before  her,  and  some  are 

moved  to  speech, 
And  they  cast  their  arms  about  her  and  strive  with  her, 

and  beseech 
That  she  look  on  her  loved-ones'  sorrow  and  the  glory 

of  the  day. 
It  was  nought ;  she  scarce  might  see  them,  and  she  pnt 

their  hands  away 


BRYNHILD.  271 

And  she  said:   "Peace,  ye  that  love  me!  and  take  the 

gifts  and  the  gold 
In  remembrance  of  my  fathers  and  the  faithful  deeds  of 

old." 

Then  she  spake:  "Where  now  is  Gunnar,  that  I  may 

speak  with  him  ? 
For  new  things  are  mine  eyes  beholding  and  the  Niblung 

house  grows  dim, 
And  new  sounds  gather  about  me  that  may  hinder  me  to 

speak 
When  the  breath  is  near  to  flitting,  and  the  voice  is 

waxen  weak." 

Then  upright  by  the  bed  of  the  Niblungs  for  a  moment 

doth  she  stand, 
And  the  blade  flasheth  bright  in  the  chamber,  but  no 

more  they  hinder  her  hand 

Than  if  a  God  were  smiting  to  rend  the  world  in  two : 
Then  dulled  are  the  glittering  edges,  and  the  bitter  point 

cleaves  through 
The  breast  of  the  all-wise  Brynhild,  and  her  feet  from  the 

pavement  fail, 
And  the  sigh  of  her  heart  is  hearkened  mid  the  hush  of 

the  maidens'  wail. 
Chill,  deep  is  the  fear  upon  them,  but  they  bring  her 

aback  to  the  bed, 
And  her  hand  is  yet  on  the  hilts,  and  sidelong  droopeth 

her  head. 

Then  there  cometh  a  cry  from  withoutward,  and  Gunnar's 

hurrying  feet 
Are  swift  on  the  kingly  threshold,  and  Brynhild's  blood 

they  meet. 
Low  down  o'er  the  bed  he  hangeth  and  harkeneth  for  her 

word, 

And  her  heavy  lids  are  opened  to  look  on  the  Niblung  lord, 
And  she  saith : 

"  I  pray  thee  a  prayer,  the  last  word  in 

the  world  I  speak, 
That  ye  bear  me  forth  to  Sigurd,  and  the  hand  my  hand 

would  seek ; 
The  bale  for  the  dead  is  builded,  it  is  wrought  full  wide 

on  the  plain, 


272  SIGURD   THE   VOLSUNG. 

It  is  raised  for  Earth's  best  Helper,  and  thereon  is  room 

for  twain : 
Ye  have  hung  the  shields  about  it,  and  the  Southland 

hangings  spread, 
There  lay  me  adown  by  Sigurd  and  my  head  beside  his 

head: 
But  ere  ye  leave  us  sleeping,  draw  his  Wrath  from  out 

the  sheath, 
And  lay  that  Light  of  the  Branstock,  and  the  blade  that 

frighted  death 

Betwixt  my  side  and  Sigurd's,  as  it  lay  that  while  agone, 
When  once  in  one   bed  together  we  twain  were  laid 

alone : 
How  then  when  the  flames  flare  upward  may  I  be  left 

behind? 
How  then  may  the  road  he  wendeth  be  hard  for  my  feet 

to  find  ? 
How  then  in  the  gates  of  Valhall  may  the  door  of  the 

gleaming  ring 
Clash  to  on  the  heel  of  Sigurd,  as  I  follow  on  my  King?" 

Then  she  raised  herself  on  her  elbow,  but  again  her  eye- 
lids sank, 

And  the  wound  by  the  sword-edge  whispered,  as  her  heart 
from  the  iron  shrank, 

And  she  moaned:  "0  lives  of  man-folk,  for  unrest  all 
overlong 

By  the  Father  were  ye  fashioned  ;  and  what  hope  amend- 
eth  wrong  ? 

Now  at  last,  0  my  beloved,  all  is  gone ;  none  else  is  near, 

Through  the  ages  of  all  ages,  never  sundered,  shall  we 
wear." 

Scarce  more  than  a  sigh  was  the  word,  as  back  on  the  bed 
she  fell, 

Nor  was  there  need  in  the  chamber  of  the  passing  of 
Brynhild  to  tell ; 

And  no  more  their  lamentation  might  the  maidens  hold 
aback, 

But  the  sound  of  their  bitter  mourning  was  as  if  red- 
handed  wrack 

Ban  wild  in  the  Burg  of  the  Niblungs,  and  the  fire  were 
master  of  all. 


BRYNHILD.  273 

Then  the  voice  of  Gunnar  the  war-king  cried  out  o'er  the 

weeping  hall: 
"  Wail  on,  O  women  forsaken,  for  the  mightiest  woman 

born! 
Now  the  hearth  is  cold  and  joyless,  and  the  waste  bed 

lieth  forlorn. 
Wail  on,  but  amid  your  weeping  lay  hand  to  the  glorious 

dead, 
That  not  alone  for  an  hour  may  lie  Queen  Brynhild's 

head: 
For  here  have  been  heavy  tidings,  and  the  Mightiest 

under  shield 
Is  laid  on  the  bale  high-builded  in  the  Niblungs'  hallowed 

field. 

Fare  forth !  for  he  abideth,  and  we  do  Allfather  wrong, 
If  the   shining    ValhalFs    pavement    await    their  feet 

o'erlong." 

Then  they  took  the  body  of  Brynhild  in  the  raiment  that 

she  wore, 
And  out  through  the  gate  of  the  Niblungs  the  holy  corpse 

they  bore, 

And  thence  forth  to  the  mead  of  the  people,  and  the  high- 
built  shielded  bale : 
Then  afresh  in  the  open  meadows  breaks   forth    the 

women's  wail 
When  they  see  the  bed  of  Sigurd  and  the  glittering  of  his 

gear;  ^ 
And  fresh  is  the  wail  of  the  people  as  Brynhild  draweth 

anear, 
And  the  tidings  go  before  her  that  for  twain  the  bale  is 

built, 
That  for  twain  is  the  oak-wood  shielded  and  the  pleasant 

odours  spilt. 

There  is  peace  on  the  bale  of  Sigurd,  and  the  Gods  look 

down  from  on  high, 
And  they  see  the  lids  of  the  Volsung  close  shut  against 

the  sky. 
As  he  lies  with  his  shield  beside  him  in  the  Hauberk  all 

of  gold, 
That  has  not  its  like  in  the  heavens,  nor  has  earth  of  its 

fellow  told ; 


274  SIGURD   THE  VOLSUNG. 

And  forth  from  the  Helm  of  Aweing  are  the  sunbeams 

flashing  wide, 
And  the  sheathed  Wrath  of  Sigurd  lies  still  by  his  mighty 

side. 

Then  cometh  an  elder  of  days,  a  man  of  the  ancient  times, 
Who  is  long  past  sorrow  and  joy,  and  the  steep  of  the 

bale  he  climbs ; 
And  he  kneeleth  down  by  Sigurd,  and  bareth  the  Wrath 

to  the  sun 
That  the  beams  are  gathered  about  it,  and  from  hilt  to 

blood-point  run, 
And  wide  o'er  the  plain  of  the  Niblungs  doth  the  Light 

of  the  Branstock  glare, 
Till  the  wondering  mountain-shepherds  on  that  star  of 

noontide  stare, 
And  fear  for  many  an  evil;  but  the  ancient  man  stands 

still 
With  the  war-flame  on  his  shoulder,  nor  thinks  of  good 

or  of  ill, 
Till  the  feet  of  Brynhild's  bearers  on  the  topmost  bale  are 

laid, 
And  her  bed  is  dight  by  Sigurd's ;  then  he  sinks  the  pale 

white  blade 
And  lays  it  'twixt  the  sleepers,  and  leaves  them  there 

alone  — 
He,  the  last  that  shall  ever  behold  them,  —  and  his  days 

are  well-nigh  done. 

Then  is  silence  over  the  plain;  in  the  noon  shine  the 

torches  pale 
As  the  best  of  the  Niblung  Earl-folk  bear  fire  to  the 

builded  bale : 
Then  a  wind  in  the  west  ariseth,  and  the  white  flames 

leap  on  high, 
And  with  one  voice  crieth  the  people  a  great  and  mighty 

cry, 
And  men  cast  up  hands  to  the  heavens,  and  pray  without 

a  word, 
As  they  that  have  seen  God's  visage,  and  the  voice  of  the 

Father  have  heard. 

They  are  gone — the  lovely,  the  mighty,  the  hope  of  the 
ancient  Earth : 


GUDRUN.  275 

It  shall  labour  and  bear  the  burden  as  before  that  day  of 

their  birth : 
It  shall  groan  in  its  blind  abiding  for  the  day  that  Sigurd 

hath  sped, 
And  the  hour  that  Brynhild  hath  hastened,  and  the  dawn 

that  waketh  the  dead : 
It  shall  yearn,  and  be  oft-times  holpen,  and  forget  their 

deeds  no  more, 
Till  the  new  sun  beams  on  Baldur,  and  the  happy  sealess 

shore. 


GUDKUN. 
OP  THE  BATTLE  IN  ATLI'S  HALL.31 

YE  shall  know  that  in  Atli's  feast-hall  on  the  side  that 

joined  the  house 

Were  many  carveu  doorways  whose  work  was  glorious 
With  marble  stones  and  gold-work,  and  their  doors  of 

beaten  brass : 
Lo  now,  in  the  merry  morning  how  the  story  cometh  to 

pass! 

—  While  the  echoes  of  the  trumpet  yet  fill  the  people's 

ears, 
And  Hogni  casts  by  the  war-horn,  and  his  Dwarf -wrought 

sword  uprears, 
All  those  doors  aforesaid  open,  and  in  pour  the  streams 

of  steel, 
The  best  of  the  Eastland  champions,  the  bold  men  of 

Atli's  weal : 

They  raise  no  cry  of  battle  nor  cast  forth  threat  of  woe, 
And  their  helmed  and  hidden  faces  from  each  other  none 

may  know; : 
Then  a  light  in  the  hall  ariseth,  and  the  fire  of  battle 

runs 
All  adown  the  front  of  the  Niblungs  in  the  face  of  the 

mighty-ones ; 

All  eyes  are  set  upon  them,  hard  drawn  is  every  breath, 
Ere  the  foremost  points  be  mingled  and  death  be  blent 

with  death. 

—  All  eyes  save  the  eyes  of  Hogni ;  but  e'en  as  the  edges 

meet, 


276  SIGURD   THE  VOLSUNG. 

He  turneth  about  for  a  moment  to  the  gold  of  the  kingly 
seat, 

Then  aback  to  the  front  of  battle;  there  then,  as  the 
lightning-flash 

Through  the  dark  night  showeth  the  city  when  the  clouds 
of  heaven  clash, 

And  the  gazer  shrinketh  backward,  yet  he  seeth  from  end 
to  end 

The  street  and  the  merry  market,  and  the  windows  of 
his  friend, 

And  the  pavement  where  his  footsteps  yestre'en  return- 
ing trod, 

Now  white  and  changed  and  dreadful  'neath  the  threaten- 
ing voice  of  God ; 

So  Hogni  seeth  Gudrun,  and  the  face  he  used  to 
know, 

Unspeakable,  unchanging,  with  white  unknitted  brow 

With  half-closed  lips  untrembling,  with  deedless  hands 
and  cold 

Laid  still  on  knees  that  stir  not,  and  the  linen's  moveless 
fold. 

Turned   Hogni    unto  the  spear-wall,   and  smote  from 

where  he  stood, 
And  hewed  with  his  sword  two-handed  as  the  axe-man  in 

a  wood : 
Before  his  sword  was  a  champion  and  the  edges  clave  to 

the  chin, 
And  the  first  man  fell  in  the  feast-hall  of  those  that 

should  fall  therein. 
Then  man  with  man  was  dealing,  and  the  Niblung  host 

of  war 
Was  swept  by  the  leaping  iron,  as  the  rock  anigh  the 

shore 
By  the  ice-cold  waves  of  winter :  yet  a  moment  Gunnar 

stayed, 
As  high  in  his  hand  unbloodied  he  shook  his  awful 

blade; 
And  he  cried : 

"  0  Eastland  champions,  do  ye  behold  it 

here, 
The  sword  of  the  ancient  Giuki  ?    Fall  on  and  have  no 

fear, 


GUDRUN.  277 

But  slay  and  be  slain  and  be  famous,  if  your  master's  will 

it  be! 
Yet  are  we  the  blameless  Niblungs,  and  bidden  guests 

are  we : 
So  forbear,  if  ye  wander  hood-winked,  nor  for  nothing 

slay  and  be  slain ; 
For  I  know  not  what  to  tell  you  of  the  dead  that  live 

again." 

So  he  saith  in  the  midst  of  the  f  oemen  with  his  war-flame 

reared  on  high, 

But  all  about  and  around  him  goes  up  a  bitter  cry 
From  the  iron  men  of  Atli,  and  the  bickering  of  the  steel 
Sends  a  roar  up  to  the  roof -ridge,  and  the  Niblung  war- 
ranks  reel 
Behind  the  steadfast  Gunnar :  but  lo,  have  ye  seen  the 

corn, 

While  yet  men  grind  the  sickle,  by  the  wind-streak  over- 
borne 
When  the  sudden  rain  sweeps  downward,  and  summer 

groweth  black 
And  the  smitten  wood-side  roareth  'neath  the  driving 

thunder-wrack  ? 
So  before  the  wise-heart  Hogni  shrank  the  champions  of 

the  East 
As  his  great  voice  shook  the  timbers  in  the  hall  of  Atli's 

feast. 
There  he   smote  and  beheld  not  the  smitten,  and  by 

nought  were  his  edges  stopped ; 
He  smote  and  the  dead  were  thrust  from  him;  a  hand 

with  its  shield  he  lopped; 
There  met  him  Atli's  marshal,  and  his  arm  at  the  shoulder 

he  shred ; 
Three  swords  were  upreared  against  him  of  the  best  of 

the  kin  of  the  dead  ; 
And  he  struck  off  a  head  to  the  rightward,  and  his  sword 

through  a  throat  he  thrust, 
But  the  third  stroke  fell  on  his  helm-crest,  and  he  stooped 

to  the  ruddy  dust, 
And  uprose  as  the  ancient  Giant,  and  both  his  hands 

were  wet : 
Red  then  was  the  world  to  his  eyen,  as  his  hand  to  the 

labour  he  set ; 


278  SIGURD   THE  VOLSUNG. 

Swords  shook  and  fell  in  his  pathway,  huge  bodies  leapt 
and  fell, 

Harsh  grided  shield  and  war-helm  like  the  tempest- 
smitten  bell, 

And  the  war-cries  ran  together,  and  no  man  his  brother 
knew, 

And  the  dead  men  loaded  the  living,  as  he  went  the  war- 
wood  through  ; 

And  man  'gainst  man  was  huddled,  till  no  sword  rose  to 
smite, 

And  clear  stood  the  glorious  Hogni  in  an  island  of  the 
fight, 

And  there  ran  a  river  of  death  'twixt  the  Niblung  and 
his  foes 

And  therefrom  the  terror  of  men  and  the  wrath  of  the 
Gods  arose. 

Now  fell  the  sword  of  Gunnar  and  rose  up  red  in  the 

air, 
And  hearkened  the  song  of  the  Niblung,  as  his  voice 

rang  glad  and  clear, 
And  rejoiced  and  leapt  at  the  Eastmen,  and  cried  as  it 

met  the  rings 

Of  a  giant  of  King  Atli,  and  a  murder-wolf  of  Kings ; 
But  it  quenched  its  thirst  in  his  entrails,  and  knew  the 

heart  in  his  breast, 
And  hearkened  the  praise  of  Gunnar,  and  lingered  not  to 

rest, 

But  fell  upon  Atli's  brother  and  stayed  not  in  his  brain ; 
Then  he  fell  and  the  King  leapt  over,  and  clave  a  neck 

atwain, 
And  leapt  o'er  the  sweep  of  a  pole-axe  and  thrust  a  lord 

in  the  throat, 
And  King  Atli's  banner-bearer  through  shield  and  hauberk 

smote ; 
Then  he  laughed  on  the  huddled  East-folk,  and  against 

their  war-shields  drave 
While  the  white   swords  tossed  about  him,  and  that 

archer's  skull  he  clave 
Whom  Atli  had  bought  in  the  Southlands  for  many  a 

pound  of  gold ; 

And  the  dark-skinned  fell  upon  Gunnar  and  over  his  war- 
shield  rolled 


GUDRUN.  279 

And  cumbered  his  sword  for  a  season,  and  the  many 

blades  fell  on, 
And   sheared  the  cloudy  helm-crest  and  rents  in  his 

hauberk  won, 
And  the  red  blood  ran  from  Gunnar;  till  that  Giuki's 

sword  outburst, 
As  the  fire-tongue  from  the  smoulder  that  the  leafy  heap 

hath  nursed, 
And  unshielded  smote  King  Gunnar,  and  sent  the  Niblung 

song 
Through  the  quaking  stems  of  battle  in  the  hall  of  Atli's 

wrong : 
Then  he  rent  the  knitted  war-hedge  till  by  Hogni's  side 

he  stood, 
And  kissed  him  amidst  of  the  spear-hail,  and  their  cheeks 

were  wet  with  blood. 

Then  on  came  the  Niblung  bucklers,  and  they  drave  the 
East-folk  home 

As  the  bows  of  the  oar-driven  long-ship  beat  off  the  waves 
in  foam : 

They  leave  their  dead  behind  them,  and  they  come  to  the 
doors  and  the  wall, 

And  a  few  last  spears  from  the  fleeing  amidst  their  shield- 
hedge  fall: 

But  the  doors  clash  to  in  their  faces,  as  the  fleeing  rout 
they  drive, 

And  fain  would  follow  after ;  and  none  is  left  alive 

In  the  feast-hall  of  King  Atli,  save  those  fishes  of  the  net, 

And  the  white  and  silent  woman  above  the  slaughter  set. 

Then  biddeth  the  heart-wise  Hogni,  and  men  to  the  win- 
dows climb, 

And  uplift  the  war-grey  corpses,  dead  drift  of  the  stormy 
time, 

And  cast  them  adown  to  their  people  :  thence  they  come 
aback  and  say 

That  scarce  shall  ye  see  the  houses,  and  no  whit  the 
wheel-worn  way 

For  the  spears  and  shields  of  the  Eastlands  that  the  mer- 
chant city  throng ; 

And  back  to  the  Niblung  burg-gate  the  way  seemed  weary- 
long. 


280  SIGURD   THE  VOL  SUNG. 

Yet  passeth  hour  on  hour,  and  the  doors  they  watch  and 

ward 
But  a  long  while  hear  no  mail-clash,  nor  the  ringing  of 

the  sword ; 
Then  droop  the  Niblung  children,  and  their  wounds  are 

waxen  chill, 
And  they  think  of  the  Burg  by  the  river,  and  the  builded 

holy  hill, 
And  their  eyes  are  set  on  Gudrun  as  of  men  who  would 

beseech ; 
But  unlearned  are  they  in  craving  and  know  not  dastard's 

speech. 
Then  doth  Giuki's  first-begotten  a  deed  most  fair  to  be 

told, 
For  his  fair  harp  Gunnar  taketh,  and  the  warp  of  silver 

and  gold ; 
With  the  hand  of  a  cunning  harper  he  dealeth  with  the 

strings, 
And  his  voice  in  their  midst  goeth  upward,  as  of  ancient 

days  he  sings, 
Of  the  days  before  the  Niblungs,  and  the  days  that  shall 

be  yet ; 
Till  the  hour  of  toil   and   smiting   the   warrior   hearts 

forget, 
Nor  hear  the  gathering  foemen,  nor  the  sound  of  swords 

aloof : 
Then  clear  the  song  of  Gunnar  goes  up  to  the  dusky 

roof, 
And  the  coming  spear-host  tarries,  and  the  bearers  of  the 

woe 

Through  the  cloisters  of  King  Atli  with  lingering  foot- 
steps go. 

But  Hogni  looketh  on  Gudrun,  and  no  change  in  her  face 


And  no  stir  in  her  folded  linen  and  the  deedless  hands 

on  her  knees : 
Then  from  Gunnar's  side  he  hasteneth ;  and  lo,  the  open 

door, 
And  a  foeman  treadeth  the  pavement,  and  his  lips  are  on 

Atli's  floor, 
For  Hogni  is  death  in  the  doorway :  then  the  Niblungs 

turn  on  the  foe, 


GUDRUN.  281 

And  the  hosts  are  mingled  together,  and  blow  cries  out  on 
blow. 

Still  the  song  goeth  up  from  Gunnar,  though  his  harp  to 

earth  be  laid ; 
But  he  fighteth  exceeding  wisely,  and  is  many  a  warrior's 

aid, 
And  he  shieldeth  and  delivereth,  and  his  eyes  search 

through  the  hall, 

And  woe  is  he  for  his  fellows,  as  his  battle-brethren  fall ; 
For  the  turmoil  hideth  little  from  that   glorious   folk- 
king's  eyes, 
And  o'er  all  he  beholdeth  Gudrun,  and  his  soul  is  waxen 

wise, 
And  he  saith :  "We  shall  look  on  Sigurd,  and  Sigmund  of 

old  days, 
And  see  the  boughs  of  the  Branstock  o'er  the  ancient 

Volsung's  praise. 

Woe 's  me  for  the  wrath  of  Hogni !    From  the  door  he 

giveth  aback 
That  the  Eastland  slayers  may  enter  to  the  murder  and 

the  wrack : 
Then  he  rageth  and  driveth  the  battle  to  the  golden 

kingly  seat, 

And  the  last  of  the  foes  he  slayeth  by  Gudrun's  very  feet, 
That  the  red  blood  splasheth  her  raiment ;  and  his  own 

blood  therewithal 
He  casteth  aloft  before  her,  and  the  drops  on  her  white 

hands  fall : 
But  nought  she  seeth  or  heedeth,  and  again  he  turns  to 

the  fight, 

Nor  heedeth  stroke  nor  wounding  so  he  a  foe  may 
smite  : 

Then  the  battle  opens  before  him,  and  the  Niblungs  draw 
to  his  side ; 

As  Death  in  the  world  first  fashioned,  through  the  feast- 
hall  doth  he  stride. 

And  so  once  more  do  the  Niblungs  sweep  that  murder- 
flood  of  men 

From  the  hall  of  toils  and  treason,  and  the  doors  swing 
to  again.- 


282  SIGURD  THE  VOLSUNG. 

Then  again  is  there  peace  for  a  little  within  the  fateful 

fold; 
But  the  Niblungs  look  about  them,  and  but  few  folk  they 

behold 
Upright  on  their  feet  for  the  battle  :  now  they  climb  aloft 

no  more, 
Nor  cast  the  dead  from  the  windows ;   but  they  raise  a 

rampart  of  war, 
And  its  stones  are  the  fallen  East-folk,  and  no  lowly  wall 

is  that. 

Therein  was  Gunnar  the  mighty :  on  the  shields  of  men 

he  sat, 
And  the  sons  of  his  people  hearkened,  for  his  hand 

through  the  harp-strings  ran, 
And  he  sang  in  the  hall  of  his  foeman  of  the  Gods  and 

the  making  of  man, 
And  how  season  was  sundered  from  season  in  the  days 

of  the  fashioning, 
And  became  the  Summer  and  Autumn,  and  became  the 

Winter  and  Spring ; 
He  sang  of  men's  hunger  and  labour,  and  their  love  and 

their  breeding  of  broil, 
And  their  hope  that  is  fostered  of  famine,  and  their  rest 

that  is  fashioned  of  toil : 
Fame  then  and  the  sword  he  sang  of,  and  the  hour  of  the 

hardy  and  wise, 
When  the  last  of  the  living  shall  perish,  and  the  first  of 

the  dead  shall  arise, 
And  the  torch  shall  be  lit  in  the  daylight,  and  God  unto 

man  shall  pray, 
And  the  heart  shall  cry  out  for  the  hand  in  the  fight  of 

the  uttermost  day. 

So  he  sang,  and  beheld  not  Gudrun,  save  as  long  ago  he 

saw 

His  sister,  the  little  maiden  of  the  face  without  a  flaw : 
But  wearily  Hogni  beheld  her,  and  no  change  in  her  face 

there  was, 
And  long  thereon  gazed  Hogni,  and  set  his  brows  as  the 

brass, 
Though  the  hands  of  the  King  were  weary,  and  weak  his 

knees  were  grown, 


GUDRUN.  283 

And  he  felt  as  a  man  unholpen  in  a  waste  land  wending 
alone. 

Now  the  noon  was  long  passed  over  when  again  the 

rumour  arose, 
And  through  the  doors  cast  open  flowed  in  the  river  of 

foes: 
They  flooded  the  hall  of  the  murder,  and  surged  round 

that  rampart  of  dead  ; 

No  war-duke  ran  before  them,  no  lord  to  the  onset  led, 
Till  the  misty  hall  was  blinded  with  the  bitter  drift  of  war : 
But  the  thralls  shot  spears  at  adventure,  and  shot  out 

shafts  from  afar, 
Few  and  faint  were  the  Niblung  children,   and  their 

wounds  were  waxen  acold, 
And  they  saw  the  Hell-gates  open  as  they  stood  in  their 

grimly  hold : 
Yet  thrice  stormed  out  King  Hogni,  thrice  stormed  out 

Gunnar  the  King, 
Thrice  fell  they  aback  yet  living  to  the  heart  of  the  fated 

ring; 
And  they  looked  and  their  band  was  little,  and  no  man 

but  was  wounded  sore, 
And  the  hall  seemed  growing  greater,  such  hosts  of  foes 

it  bore, 

So  tossed  the  iron  harvest  from  wall  to  gilded  wall ; 
And  they  looked  and  the  white-clad  Gudrun  sat  silent 

over  all. 

Then  the  churls  and  thralls  of  the  Eastland  howled  out  as 

wolves  accurst, 
But  oft  gaped  the  Niblungs  voiceless,  for  they  choked 

with  anger  and  thirst ; 
And  the  hall  grew  hot  as  a  furnace,  and  men  drank  their 

flowing  blood, 
Men  laughed  and  gnawed  on  their  shield-rims,  men  knew 

not  where  they  stood, 
And  saw  not  what  was  before  them ;  as  in  the  dark  men 

smote, 
Men  died  heart-broken,  unsmitten ;  men  wept  with  the 

cry  in  the  throat, 
Men  lived  on  full  of  war-shafts,  men  cast  their  shields 

aside 


284  SIGURD   THE  VOLSUNG. 

And  caught  the  spears  to  their  bosoms ;  men  rushed  with 

none  beside, 
And  fell  unarmed  on  the  foemen,  and  tore  and  slew  in 

death : 
And  still  down  rained  the  arrows  as  the  rain  across  the 

heath ; 
Still  proud  o'er  all  the  turmoil  stood  the  Kings  of  Giuki 

born, 
Nor  knit  were  the  brows  of  Gunnar,  nor  his  song-speech 

overworn ; 
But  Hogni's  mouth  kept  silence,  and  oft  his  heart  went 

forth 
To  the  long,  long  day  of  the  darkness,  and  the  end  of 

worldly  worth. 

Loud  rose  the  roar  of  the  East-folk,  and  the  end  was  com- 
ing at  last ; 

Now  the  foremost  locked  their  shield-rims  and  the  hind- 
most over  them  cast, 

And  nigher  they  drew  and  nigher,  and  their  fear  was 
fading  away, 

For  every  man  of  the  Niblungs  on  the  shaft-strewn  pave- 
ment lay, 

Save  Gunnar  the  King  and  Hogni:  still  the  glorious 
King  up-bore 

The  cloudy  shield  of  the  Niblungs  set  full  of  shafts  of 
war; 

But  Hogni's  hands  had  fainted,  and  his  shield  had  sunk 
ad  own, 

So  thick  with  the  Eastland  spearwood  was  that  rampart 
of  renown ; 

And  hacked  and  dull  were  the  edges  that  had  rent  the 
wall  of  foes : 

Yet  he  stood  upright  by  Gunnar  before  that  shielded 
close, 

Nor  looked  on  the  foemen's  faces  as  their  wild  eyes  drew 
anear, 

And  their  faltering  shield-rims  clattered  with  the  remnant 
of  their  fear ; 

But  he  gazed  on  the  Niblung  woman,  and  the  daughter 
of  his  folk, 

Who  sat  o'er  all  unchanging  ere  the  war-cloud  over  them 
broke. 


GUDRUN.  285 

Now  nothing  might  men  hearken  in  the  house  of  Atli's 
weal, 

Save  the  feet  slow  tramping  onward,  and  the  rattling  of 
the  steel, 

And  the  song  of  the  glorious  Gunnar,  that  rang  as  clearly 
now 

As  the  speckled  storm-cock  singeth  from  the  scant-leaved 
hawthorn-bough, 

When  the  sun  is  dusking  over  and  the  March  snow  pelts 
the  land. 

There  stood  the  mighty  Gunnar  with  sword  and  shield  in 
hand, 

There  stood  the  shieldless  Hogni  with  set  unangry  eyes, 

And  watched  the  wall  of  war-shields  o'er  the  dead  men's 
rampart  rise, 

And  the  white  blades  nickering  nigher,  and  the  quavering 
points  of  war. 

Then  the  heavy  air  of  the  feast-hall  was  rent  with  a  fear- 
ful roar, 

And  the  turmoil  came  and  the  tangle,  as  the  wall  to- 
gether ran: 

But  aloft  yet  towered  the  Niblungs,  and  man  toppled 

over  man, 
And  leapt  and  struggled  to  tear  them  ;  as  whiles  amidst 

the  sea 
The  doomed  ship   strives  its  utmost  with  mid-ocean's 

mastery, 
And  the  tall  masts  whip  the  cordage,  while  the  welter 

whirls  and  leaps, 
And  they  rise  and  reel  and  waver,  and  sink  amid  the 


So  before  the  little-hearted  in  King  Atli's  murder-hall 
Did  the  glorious  sons  of  Giuki  'neath  the  shielded  onrush 

fall: 
Sore  wounded,  bound  and  helpless,  but  living  yet,  they 

lie 
Till  the  afternoon  and  the  even  in  the  first  of  night  shall 

die. 


POEMS  BY  THE  WAY. 
SOCIALISTIC,  ROMANTIC,  AND  ICELANDIC. 


POEMS  BY  THE  WAY. 


FKOM  THE  UPLAND  TO  THE  SEA.32 

SHALL  we  wake  one  morn  of  spring, 
Glad  at  heart  of  everything, 
Yet  pensive  with  the  thought  of  eve  ? 
Then  the  white  house  shall  we  leave, 
Pass  the  wind-flowers  and  the  bays, 
Through  the  garth,  and  go  our  ways, 
Wandering  down  among  the  meads 
Till  our  very  joyance  needs 
Kest  at  last ;  till  we  shall  come 
To  that  Sun-god's  lonely  home, 
Lonely  on  the  hillside  grey, 
Whence  the  sheep  have  gone  away ; 
Lonely  till  the  feast-time  is, 
When  with  prayer  and  praise  of  bliss, 
Thither  comes  the  country-side. 
There  awhile  shall  we  abide, 
Sitting  low  down  in  the  porch 
By  that  image  with  the  torch : 
Thy  one  white  hand  laid  upon 
The  black  pillar  that  was  won 
From  the  far-off  Indian  mine ; 
And  my  hand  nigh  touching  thine, 
But  not  touching  ;  and  thy  gown 
Fair  with  spring-flowers  cast  adown 
From  thy  bosom  and  thy  brow. 
There  the  south-west  wind  shall  blow 
Through  thine  hair  to  reach  my  cheek, 
As  thou  sittest,  nor  mayst  speak, 
Nor  mayst  move  the  hand  I  kiss 
For  the  very  depth  of  bliss  ; 
Nay,  nor  turn  thine  eyes  to  me. 
Then  desire  of  the  great  sea 
Nigh  enow,  but  all  unheard, 
In  the  hearts  of  us  is  stirred, 


290  POEMS  BY  THE  WAY. 

And  we  rise,  we  twain  at  last, 
And  the  daffodils  downcast, 
Feel  thy  feet  and  we  are  gone 
From  the  lonely  Sun-Crowned  one. 
Then  the  meads  fade  at  our  back, 
And  the  spring  day  'gins  to  lack 
That  fresh  hope  that  once  it  had ; 
But  we  twain  grow  yet  more  glad, 
And  apart  no  more  may  go 
When  the  grassy  slope  and  low 
Dieth  in  the  shingly  sand : 
Then  we  wander  hand  in  hand 
By  the  edges  of  the  sea, 
And  I  weary  more  for  thee 
Than  if  far  apart  we  were, 
With  a  space  of  desert  drear 
'Twixt  thy  lips  and  mine,  0  love ! 
Ah,  my  joy,  my  joy  thereof  I 


HOPE  DIETH:    LOVE  LIVETH. 

STRONG  are  thine  arms,  0  love,  and  strong 
Thine  heart  to  live,  and  love,  and  long ; 
But  thou  art  wed  to  grief  and  wrong  : 
Live,  then,  and  long,  though  hope  be  dead ! 
Live  on,  and  labour  through  the  years ! 
Make  pictures  through  the  mist  of  tears, 
Of  unforgotten  happy  fears, 
That  crossed  the  time  ere  hope  was  dead. 
Draw  near  the  place  where  once  we  stood 
Amid  delight's  swift-rushing  flood, 
And  we  and  all  the  world  seemed  good 
Nor  needed  hope  now  cold  and  dead. 
Dream  in  the  dawn  I  come  to  thee 
Weeping  for  things  that  may  not  be ! 
Dream  that  thou  layest  lips  on  me ! 
Wake,  wake  to  clasp  hope's  body  dead ! 
Count  o'er  and  o'er,  and  one  by  one, 
The  minutes  of  the  happy  sun 
That  while  agone  on  kissed  lips  shone, 


THE  HALL  AND   THE   WOOD.  291 

Count  on,  rest  not,  for  hope  is  dead. 

Weep,  though  no  hair's  breadth  thou  shalt  move 

The  living  Earth,  the  heaven  above, 

By  all  the  bitterness  of  love ! 

Weep  and  cease  not,  now  hope  is  dead ! 

Sighs  rest  thee  not,  tears  bring  no  ease, 

Life  hath  no  joy,  and  Death  no  peace : 

The  years  change  not,  though  they  decrease, 

For  hope  is  dead,  for  hope  is  dead. 

Speak,  love,  I  listen :  far  away 

I  bless  the  tremulous  lips,  that  say, 

"  Mock  not  the  afternoon  of  day, 

Mock  not  the  tide  when  hope  is  dead  ! " 

I  bless  thee,  0  my  love,  who  say'st : 

"Mock  not  the  thistle-cumbered  waste ; 

I  hold  Love's  hand,  and  make  no  haste 

Down  the  long  way,  now  hope  is  dead. 

With  other  names  do  we  name  pain, 

The  long  years  wear  our  hearts  in  vain. 

Mock  not  our  loss  grown  into  gain, 

Mock  not  our  lost  hope  lying  dead. 

Our  eyes  gaze  for  no  morning-star, 

No  glimmer  of  the  dawn  afar ; 

Full  silent  wayfarers  we  are 

Since  ere  the  noon-tide  hope  lay  dead. 

Behold  with  lack  of  happiness 

The  master,  Love,  our  hearts  did  bless 

Lest  we  should  think  of  him  the  less : 

Love  dieth  not,  though  hope  is  dead ! " 


THE  HALL  AND  THE  WOOD.88 

'T  WAS  in  the  water-dwindling  tide 
When  July  days  were  done, 
Sir  Rafe  of  Greenhowes  'gan  to  ride 
In  the  earliest  of  the  sun. 

He  left  the  white-walled  burg  behind, 
He  rode  amidst  the  wheat. 
The  westland-gotten  wind  blew  kind 
Across  the  acres  sweet. 


292  POEMS  BY  THE   WAY. 

Then  rose  his  heart  and  cleared  his  brow, 
And  slow  he  rode  the  way : 
"  As  then  it  was,  so  is  it  now, 
Not  all  hath  worn  away." 

So  came  he  to  the  long  green  lane 
That  leadeth  to  the  ford, 
And  saw  the  sickle  by  the  wain 
Shine  bright  as  any  sword. 

The  brown  carles  stayed  'twixt  draught  and  draught, 

And  murmuring,  stood  aloof, 

But  one  spake  out  when  he  had  laughed : 

"  God  bless  the  Green-wood  Roof !  " 

Then  o'er  the  ford  and  up  he  fared : 
And  lo  the  happy  hills ! 
And  the  mountain-dale  by  summer  cleared, 
That  oft  the  winter  fills. 

Then  forth  he  rode  by  Peter's  gate, 
And  smiled  and  said  aloud : 
"  No  more  a  day  doth  the  Prior  wait ; 
White  stands  the  tower  and  proud." 

There  leaned  a  knight  on  the  gateway  side 
In  armour  white  and  wan, 
And  after  the  heels  of  the  horse  he  cried, 
"  God  keep  the  hunted  man ! " 

Then  quoth  Sir  Rafe,  "Amen,  amen  !" 
For  he  deemed  the  word  was  good ; 
But  never  awhile  he  lingered  then 
Till  he  reached  the  Nether  Wood. 


He  rode  by  ash,  he  rode  by  oak, 
He  rode  the  thicket  round, 
And  heard  no  woodman  strike  a  stroke, 
No  wandering  wife  he  found. 

He  rode  the  wet,  he  rode  the  dry, 
He  rode  the  grassy  glade : 
At  Wood-end  yet  the  sun  was  high, 
And  his  heart  was  unafraid. 


THE  HALL  AND   THE   WOOD.  293 

There  on  the  bent  his  rein  he  drew, 
And  looked  o'er  field  and  fold, 
O'er  all  the  merry  meads  he  knew 
Beneath  the  mountains  old. 

He  gazed  across  to  the  good  Green  Howe 
As  he  smelt  the  sun- warmed  sward ; 
Then  his  face  grew  pale  from  chin  to  brow, 
And  he  cried,  "  God  save  the  sword !  " 

For  there  beyond  the  winding  way, 
Above  the  orchards  green, 
Stood  up  the  ancient  gables  grey 
With  ne'er  a  roof  between. 

His  naked  blade  in  hand  he  had, 

O'er  rough  and  smooth  he  rode, 

Till  he  stood  where  once  his  heart  was  glad 

Amidst  his  old  abode. 


Across  the  hearth  a  tie-beam  lay 
Unmoved  a  weary  while. 
The  flame  that  clomb  the  ashlar  grey 
Had  burned  it  red  as  tile. 

The  sparrows  bickering  on  the  floor 
Fled  at  his  entering  in ; 
The  swift  flew  past  the  empty  door 
His  winged  meat  to  win. 

Ked  apples  from  the  tall  old  tree 
O'er  the  wall's  rent  were  shed. 
Thence  oft,  a  little  lad,  would  he 
Look  down  upon  the  lead. 

There  turned  the  cheeping  chaffinch  now 
And  feared  no  birding  child ; 
Through  the  shot-window  thrust  a  bough 
Of  garden-rose  run  wild. 

He  looked  to  right,  he  looked  to  left, 
And  down  to  the  cold  grey  hearth, 
Where  lay  an  axe  with  half  burned  heft 
Amidst  the  ashen  dearth. 


294  POEMS  BY  THE   WAY. 

He  caught  it  up  and  cast  it  wide 
Against  the  gable  wall ; 
Then  to  the  da'is  did  he  stride, 
O'er  beam  and  bench  and  all. 

Amidst  there  yet  the  high-seat  stood, 
Where  erst  his  sires  had  sat ; 
And  the  mighty  board  of  oaken  wood, 
The  fire  had  stayed  thereat. 

Then  through  the  red  wrath  of  his  eyne 
He  saw  a  sheathed  sword, 
Laid  thwart  that  wasted  field  of  wine, 
Amidmost  of  the  board. 

And  by  the  hilts  a  slug-horn  lay, 
And  therebeside  a  scroll, 
He  caught  it  up  and  turned  away 
From  the  lea-land  of  the  bowl. 

Then  with  the  sobbing  grief  he  strove, 
For  he  saw  his  name  thereon ; 
And  the  heart  within  his  breast  uphove 
As  the  pen's  tale  now  he  won. 

"  0  Rafe,  my  love  of  long  ago  ! 
Draw  forth  thy  father's  blade, 
And  blow  the  horn  for  friend  and  foe, 
And  the  good  green-wood  to  aid ! " 

He  turned  and  took  the  slug-horn  up, 
And  set  it  to  his  mouth, 
And  o'er  that  meadow  of  the  cup 
Blew  east  and  west  and  south. 

He  drew  the  sword  from  out  the  sheath 
And  shook  the  fallow  brand ; 
And  there  a  while  with  bated  breath, 
And  hearkening  ear  did  stand. 

Him-seemed  the  horn's  voice  he  might  hear- 
Or  the  wind  that  blew  o'er  all. 
Him-seemed  that  footsteps  drew  anear  — 
Or  the  boughs  shook  round  the  hall. 


THE  HALL   AND    THE   WOOD.  295 

Him-seemed  he  heard  a  voice  he  knew  — 

Or  a  dream  of  while  agone. 

Him-seemed  bright  raiment  towards  him  drew  — 

Or  bright  the  sun-set  shone. 

She  stood  before  him  face  to  face, 
With  the  sun-beam  thwart  her  hand, 
As  on  the  gold  of  the  Holy  Place 
The  painted  angels  stand. 

With  many  a  kiss  she  closed  his  eyes ; 
She  kissed  him  cheek  and  chin: 
E'en  so  in  the  painted  Paradise 
Are  Earth's  folk  welcomed  in. 

There  in  the  door  the  green-coats  stood, 
O'er  the  bows  went  up  the  cry, 
"  0  welcome,  Rafe,  to  the  free  green- wood, 
With  us  to  live  and  die." 

It  was  bill  and  bow  by  the  high-seat  stood, 
And  they  cried  above  the  bows, 
"  Now  welcome,  Eafe,  to  the  good  green- wood, 
And  welcome  Kate  the  Rose  !  " 

White,  white  in  the  moon  is  the  woodland  plash, 
White  is  the  woodland  glade, 
Forth  wend  those  twain,  from  oak  to  ash, 
With  light  hearts  unafraid. 

The  summer  moon  high  o'er  the  hill, 
All  silver-white  is  she, 
And  Sir  Rafe's  good  men  with  bow  and  bill, 
They  go  by  two  and  three. 

In  the  fair  green-wood  where  lurks  no  fear, 
Where  the  King's  writ  runneth  not, 
There  dwell  they,  friends  and  fellows  dear, 
While  summer  days  are  hot. 

And  when  the  leaf  from  the  oak-tree  falls, 
And  winds  blow  rough  and  strong, 
With  the  carles  of  the  woodland  thorps  and  halls 
They  dwell,  and  fear  no  wrong. 


296  POEMS  BY  THE  WAY. 

And  there  the  merry  yule  they  make, 
And  see  the  winter  wane, 
And  fain  are  they  for  true-love's  sake, 
And  the  folk  thereby  are  fain. 

For  the  ploughing  carle  and  the  straying  herd 

Flee  never  for  Sir  Rafe : 

No  barefoot  maiden  wends  afeard, 

And  she  deems  the  thicket  safe. 

But  sore  adread  do  the  chapmen  ride ; 
Wide  round  the  wood  they  go ; 
And  the  judge  and  the  sergeants  wander  wide, 
Lest  they  plead  before  the  bow. 

Well  learned  and  wise  is  Sir  Kafe's  good  sword, 

And  straight  the  arrows  fly, 

And  they  find  the  coat  of  many  a  lord, 

And  the  crest  that  rideth  high. 


GOLDILOCKS  AND  GOLDILOCKS. 

IT  was  Goldilocks  woke  up  in  the  morn 
At  the  first  of  the  shearing  of  the  corn. 

There  stood  his  mother  on  the  hearth 
And  of  new-leased  wheat  was  little  dearth. 

There  stood  his  sisters  by  the  quern, 

For  the  high-noon  cakes  they  needs  must  earn. 

"  0  tell  me  Goldilocks  my  son, 

Why  hast  thou  coloured  raiment  on  ?  " 

"  Why  should  I  wear  the  hodden  grey 
When  I  am  light  of  heart  to-day  ?  " 

"  0  tell  us,  brother,  why  ye  wear 
In  reaping-tide  the  scarlet  gear  ? 

"  Why  hangeth  the  sharp  sword  at  thy  side 
When  through  the  land  't  is  the  hook  goes  wide  ?  " 


GOLDILOCKS  AND   GOLDILOCKS.  297 

"  Gay-clad  am  I  that  men  may  know 
The  freeman's  son  where'er  I  go. 

"  The  grinded  sword  at  side  I  bear 
Lest  I  the  dastard's  word  should  hear." 

"  0  tell  me  Goldilocks  my  son, 

Of  whither  away  thou  wilt  be  gone  ?  " 

"  The  morn  is  fair  and  the  world  is  wide, 
And  here  no  more  will  I  abide." 

"  O  Brother,  when  wilt  thou  come  again  ?  " 
"  The  autumn  drought,  and  the  winter  rain, 

"  The  frost  and  the  snow,  and  St.  David's  wind, 
All  these  that  were  time  out  of  mind, 

"  All  these  a  many  times  shall  be 
Ere  the  Upland  Town  again  I  see." 

"  0  Goldilocks  my  son,  farewell, 

As  thou  wendest  the  world  'twixt  home  and  hell ! " 

"  0  brother  Goldilocks,  farewell, 

Come  back  with  a  tale  for  men  to  tell ! " 


So  't  is  wellaway  for  Goldilocks, 

As  he  left  the  land  of  the  wheaten  shocks. 

He 's  gotten  him  far  from  the  Upland  Town, 
And  he 's  gpne  by  Dale  and  he 's  gone  by  Down. 

He 's  come  to  the  wild- wood  dark  and  drear, 
Where  never  the  bird's  song  doth  he  hear. 

He  has  slept  in  the  moonless  wood  and  dim 
With  never  a  voice  to  comfort  him. 

He  has  risen  up  under  the  little  light 

Where  the  noon  is  as  dark  as  the  summer  night. 

Six  days  therein  has  he  walked  alone 

Till  his  scrip  was  bare  and  his  meat  was  done. 


298  POEMS  BY  THE   WAY. 

On  the  seventh  morn  in  the  mirk,  mirk  wood, 
He  saw  sight  that  he  deemed  was  good. 

It  was  as  one  sees  a  flower  a-bloom 
In  the  dusky  heat  of  a  shuttered  room. 

He  deemed  the  fair  thing  far  aloof, 
And  would  go  and  put  it  to  the  proof. 

But  the  very  first  step  he  made  from  the  place 
He  met  a  maiden  face  to  face. 

Face  to  face,  and  so  close  was  she 
That  their  lips  met  soft  and  lovingly. 

Sweet-mouthed  she  was,  and  fair  he  wist ; 
And  again  in  the  darksome  wood  they  kissed. 

Then  first  in  the  wood  her  voice  he  heard, 
As  sweet  as  the  song  of  the  summer  bird. 

"  0  thou  fair  man  with  the  golden  head, 
What  is  the  name  of  thee  ?  "  she  said. 

"  My  name  is  Goldilocks,"  said  he ; 

"  0  sweet-breathed,  what  is  the  name  of  thee  ?" 

"  0  Goldilocks  the  Swain,"  she  said, 
"My  name  is  Goldilocks  the  Maid." 

He  spake,  "  Love  me  as  I  love  thee, 
And  Goldilocks  one  flesh  shall  be." 

She  said,  "  Fair  man,  I  wot  not  how 
Thou  lovest,  but  I  love  thee  now. 

"  But  come  a  little  hence  away, 
That  I  may  see  thee  in  the  day. 

"  For  hereby  is  a  wood-lawn  clear 
And  good  for  awhile  for  us  it  were." 

Therewith  she  took  him  by  the  hand 
And  led  him  into  the  lighter  land. 


GOLDILOCKS  AND   GOLDILOCKS.  299 

There  on  the  grass  they  sat  adown. 
Clad  she  was  in  a  kirtle  brown. 

In  all  the  world  was  never  maid 
So  fair,  so  evilly  arrayed. 

No  shoes  upon  her  feet  she  had, 
And  scantly  were  her  shoulders  clad; 

Through  her  brown  kirtle's  rents  full  wide 
Shown  out  the  sleekness  of  her  side. 

An  old  scrip  hung  about  her  neck, 
Nought  of  her  raiment  did  she  reck. 

No  shame  of  all  her  rents  had  she ; 
She  gazed  upon  him  eagerly. 

She  leaned  across  the  grassy  space 
And  put  her  hands  about  his  face. 

She  said :  "  0  hunger-pale  art  thou, 

Yet  shalt  thou  eat  though  I  hunger  now." 

She  took  him  apples  from  her  scrip, 
She  kissed  him,  cheek  and  chin  and  lip. 

She  took  him  cakes  of  woodland  bread : 
"  Whiles  am  I  hunger-pinched,"  she  said. 

She  had  a  gourd  and  a  pilgrim  shell ; 
She  took  him  water  from  the  well. 

She  stroked  his  breast  and  his  scarlet  gear ; 
She  spake,  "  How  brave  thou  art  and  dear  1 " 

Her  arms  about  him  did  she  wind; 
He  felt  her  body  dear  and  kind. 


"  0  love,"  she  said,  "  now  two  are  one, 
And  whither  hence  shall  we  be  gone  ?  " 

"  Shall  we  fare  further  than  this  wood," 
Quoth  he,  "  I  deem  it  dear  and  good  ?  " 


300  POEMS  BY  THE   WAY. 

She  shook  her  head,  and  laughed,  and  spake  j 
"  Else  up  !     For  thee,  not  me,  I  quake. 

"  Had  she  been  minded  me  to  slay 
Sure  she  had  done  it  ere  to-day. 

"  But  thou :  this  hour  the  crone  shall  know 
That  thou  art  come,  her  very  foe. 

"  No  minute  more  on  tidings  wait, 
Lest  e'en  this  minute  be  too  late." 

She  led  him  from  the  sunlit  green, 
Going  sweet-stately  as  a  queen. 

There  in  the  dusky  wood,  and  dim, 
As  forth  they  went,  she  spake  to  him: 

"  Fair  man,  few  people  have  I  seen 
Amidst  this  world  of  woodland  green: 

"  But  I  would  have  thee  tell  me  now 
If  there  be  many  such  as  thou." 

"  Betwixt  the  mountains  and  the  sea, 
O  Sweet,  be  many  such,"  said  he. 

Athwart  the  glimmering  air  and  dim 
With  wistful  eyes  she  looked  on  him. 

"  But  ne'er  an  one  so  shapely  made 
Mine  eyes  have  looked  upon,"  she  said. 

He  kissed  her  face,  and  cried  in  mirth : 

"  Where  hast  thou  dwelt  then  on  the  earth  ?  " 

"Ever,"  she  said,  « I  dwell  alone 
With  a  hard-handed  cruel  crone. 

"  And  of  this  crone  am  I  the  thrall 
To  serve  her  still  in  bower  and  hall  j 

"  And  fetch  and  carry  in  the  wood, 
And  do  whate'er  she  deemeth  good. 


GOLDILOCKS  AND   GOLDILOCKS.  301 

"  But  whiles  a  sort  of  folk  there  come 
And  seek  my  mistress  at  her  home ; 

"  But  such-like  are  they  to  behold 
As  make  my  very  blood  run  cold. 

"  Oft  have  I  thought,  if  there  be  none 
On  earth  save  these,  would  all  were  done ! 

"  Forsooth,  I  knew  it  was  not  so, 
But  that  fairer  folk  on  earth  did  grow. 

"  But  fain  and  full  is  the  heart  in  me 
To  know  that  folk  are  like  to  thee." 

Then  hand  in  hand  they  stood  awhile 
Till  her  tears  rose  up  beneath  his  smile. 

And  he  must  fold  her  to  his  breast 
To  give  her  heart  awhile  of  rest. 

Till  sundered  she  and  gazed  about, 
And  bent  her  brows  as  one  in  doubt. 

She  spake  :  "  The  wood  is  growing  thin, 
Into  the  full  light  soon  shall  we  win. 

"  Now  crouch  we  that  we  be  not  seen, 
Under  yon  bramble-bushes  green." 

Under  the  bramble-bush  they  lay 
Betwixt  the  dusk  and  the  open  day. 


"  0  Goldilocks  my  love,  look  forth 

And  let  me  know  what  thou  seest  of  worth." 

He  said :  "  I  see  a  house  of  stone, 
A  castle  excellently  done." 

"  Yea,"  quoth  she,  "  there  doth  the  mistress  dwell. 
What  next  thou  seest  shalt  thou  tell." 

"  What  lookest  thou  to  see  come  forth  ?  " 
"Maybe  a  white  bear  of  the  North." 


302  POEMS  BY  THE   WAY. 

"  Then  shall  my  sharp  sword  lock  his  mouth.' 
"  Nay,"  she  said,  "  or  a  worm  of  the  South." 

"  Then  shall  my  sword  his  hot  blood  cool." 
"Nay,  or  a  whelming  poison-pool." 

"  The  trees  its  swelling  flood  shall  stay, 
And  thrust  its  venomed  lip  away." 

"  Nay,  it  may  be  a  wild-fire  flash 
To  burn  thy  lovely  limbs  to  ash." 

"  On  mine  own  hallows  shall  I  call, 
And  dead  its  flickering  flame  shall  fall." 

"  0  Goldilocks  my  love,  I  fear 
That  ugly  death  shall  seek  us  here. 

"  Look  forth,  0  Goldilocks  my  love, 
That  I  thine  hardy  heart  may  prove. 

"  What  cometh  down  the  stone- wrought  stair 
That  leadeth  up  to  the  castle  fair  ?  " 

"  Adown  the  doorward  stair  of  stone 
There  cometh  a  woman  all  alone." 

"  Yea,  that  forsooth  shall  my  mistress  be : 
O  Goldilocks,  what  like  is  she  ?  " 

"  0  fair  she  is  of  her  array, 

As  hitherward  she  wends  her  way." 

"  Unlike  her  wont  is  that  indeed : 
Is  she  not  foul  beneath  her  weed  ?  " 

"  0  nay,  nay  !     But  most  wondrous  fair 
Of  all  the  women  earth  doth  bear." 

"0  Goldilocks,  my  heart,  my  heart! 
Woe,  woe  !  for  now  we  drift  apart." 

But  up  he  sprang  from  the  bramble-side, 
And  "  0  thou  fairest  one  !  "  he  cried : 


GOLDILOCKS  AND   GOLDILOCKS.  303 

And  forth  he  ran  that  Queen  to  meet, 
And  fell  before  her  gold-clad  feet. 

About  his  neck  her  arms  she  cast, 

And  into  the  fair-built  house  they  passed. 

And  under  the  bramble-bushes  lay 
Unholpen,  Goldilocks  the  may. 


Thenceforth  awhile  of  time  there  wore, 
And  Goldilocks  came  forth  no  more. 

Throughout  that  house  he  wandered  wide, 
Both  up  and  down,  from  side  to  side. 

But  never  he  saw  an  evil  crone, 

But  a  full  fair  Queen  on  a  golden  throne. 

Never  a  barefoot  maid  did  he  see, 
But  a  gay  and  gallant  company. 

He  sat  upon  the  golden  throne, 
And  beside  him  sat  the  Queen  alone. 

Kind  she  was,  as  she  loved  him  well, 
And  many  a  merry  tale  did  tell. 

But  nought  he  laughed,  nor  spake  again, 
For  all  his  life  was  waste  and  vain. 

Cold  was  his  heart,  and  all  afraid 
To  think  on  Goldilocks  the  Maid. 


Withal  now  was  the  wedding  dight 
When  he  should  wed  that  lady  bright. 

The  night  was  gone,  and  the  day  was  up 
When  they  should  drink  the  bridal  cup. 

And  he  sat  at  the  board  beside  the  Queen, 
Amidst  of  a  guest-folk  well  beseen. 

But  scarce  was  midmorn  on  the  hall, 
When  down  did  the  mirk  of  midnight  fall. 


304  POEMS  BY  THE    WAY. 

Then  up  and  down  from  the  board  they  ran, 
And  man  laid  angry  hand  on  man. 

There  was  the  cry,  and  the  laughter  shrill, 
And  every  manner  word  of  ill. 

Whoso  of  men  had  hearkened  it, 

Had  deemed  he  had  woke  up  over  the  Pit. 

Then  spake  the  Queen  o'er  all  the  crowd, 

And  grim  was  her  speech,  and  harsh,  and  loud : 

"  Hold  now  your  peace,  ye  routing  swine, 
While  I  sit  with  mine  own  love  over  the  wine ! 

"  For  this  dusk  is  the  very  deed  of  a  foe, 
Or  under  the  sun  no  man  I  know." 

And  hard  she  spake,  and  loud  she  cried 

Till  the  noise  of  the  bickering  guests  had  died. 

Then  again  she  spake  amidst  of  the  mirk, 
In  a  voice  like  an  unoiled  wheel  at  work : 

"Whoso  would  have  a  goodly  gift, 
Let  him  bring  aback  the  sun  to  the  lift. 

"  Let  him  bring  aback  the  light  and  the  day, 
And  rich  and  in  peace  he  shall  go  his  way." 

Out  spake  a  voice  was  clean  and  clear : 
"Lo,  I  am  she  to  dight  your  gear; 

"  But  I  for  the  deed  a  gift  shall  gain, 
To  sit  by  Goldilocks  the  Swain. 

"  I  shall  sit  at  the  board  by  the  bridegroom's  side, 
And  be  betwixt  him  and  the  bride. 

"  I  shall  eat  of  his  dish,  and  drink  of  his  cup, 
Until  for  the  bride-bed  ye  rise  up." 

Then  was  the  Queen's  word  wailing- wild : 
"  E'en  so  must  it  be,  thou  Angel's  child. 


GOLDILOCKS  AND   GOLDILOCKS.  305 

"  Thou  Shalt  sit  by  my  groom  till  the  dawn  of  night, 
And  then  shalt  thou  wend  thy  ways  aright." 

Said  the  voice,  "  Yet  shalt  thou  swear  an  oath 
That  free  I  shall  go  though  ye  be  loth." 

"  How  shall  I  swear  ?  "  the  false  Queen  spake : 
"Wherewith  the  sure  oath  shall  I  make  ?  " 

"  Thou  shalt  swear  by  the  one  eye  left  in  thine  head, 
And  the  throng  of  the  ghosts  of  the  evil  dead." 

She  swore  the  oath,  and  then  she  spake : 
"Now  let  the  second  dawn  awake." 

And  e'en  therewith  the  thing  was  done ; 

There  was  peace  in  the  hall,  and  the  light  of  the  sun. 

And  again  the  Queen  was  calm  and  fair, 
And  courteous  sat  the  guest-folk  there. 

Yet  unto  Goldilocks  it  seemed 

As  if  amidst  the  night  he  dreamed ; 

As  if  he  sat  in  a  grassy  place, 

While  slim  hands  framed  his  hungry  face ; 

As  if  in  the  clearing  of  the  wood 
One  gave  him  bread  and  apples  good ; 

And  nought  he  saw  of  the  guest-folk  gay, 
And  nought  of  all  the  Queen's  array. 

Yet  saw  he  betwixt  board  and  door, 
A  slim  maid  tread  the  chequered  floor. 

Her  gown  of  green  so  fair  was  wrought, 
That  clad  her  body  seemed  with  nought 

But  blossoms  of  the  summer-tide, 

That  wreathed  her,  limbs  and  breast  and  side. 

And,  stepping  towards  him  daintily, 
A  basket  in  her  hand  had  she. 


306  POEMS  BY  THE   WAY. 

And  as  she  went,  from  head  to  feet, 
Surely  was  she  most  dainty-sweet. 

Love  floated  round  her,  and  her  eyes 
Gazed  from  her  fairness  glad  and  wise ; 

But  babbling-loud  the  guests  were  grown ; 
Unnoted  was  she  and  unknown. 


Now  Goldilocks  she  sat  beside, 

But  nothing  changed  was  the  Queenly  bride ; 

Yea  too,  and  Goldilocks  the  Swain 
Was  grown  but  dull  and  dazed  again. 

The  Queen  smiled  o'er  the  guest-rich  board, 
Although  his  wine  the  Maiden  poured ; 

Though  from  his  dish  the  Maiden  ate, 
The  Queen  sat  happy  and  sedate. 

But  now  the  Maiden  fell  to  speak 

From  lips  that  well-nigh  touched  his  cheek: 

"  0  Goldilocks,  dost  thou  forget  ? 
Or  mindest  thou  the  mirk-wood  yet  ? 

"  Forgettest  thou  the  hunger-pain 
And  all  thy  young  life  made  but  vain  ? 

"  How  there  was  nought  to  help  or  aid, 
But  for  poor  Goldilocks  the  Maid  ?" 

She  murmured,  "  Each  to  each  we  two, 
Our  faces  from  the  wood-mirk  grew. 

"  Hast  thou  forgot  the  grassy  place, 
And  love  betwixt  us  face  to  face  ? 

"  Hast  thou  forgot  how  fair  I  deemed 

Thy  face  ?    How  fair  thy  garment  seemed  ? 

"  Thy  kisses  on  my  shoulders  bare, 
Through  rents  of  the  poor  raiment  there  ? 


GOLDILOCKS  AND   GOLDILOCKS.  307 

"  My  arms  that  loved  thee  nought  unkissed 
All  o'er  from  shoulder  unto  wrist  ? 

"  Hast  thou  forgot  how  brave  thou  wert, 
Thou  with  thy  fathers'  weapon  girt ; 

"  When  underneath  the  bramble-bush 
I  quaked  like  river-shaken  rush, 

"  Wondering  what  new-wrought  shape  of  death 
Should  quench  my  new  love-quickened  breath  ? 

"  Or  else :  forget' st  thou,  Goldilocks, 
Thine  own  land  of  the  wheaten  shocks  ? 

"  Thy  mother  and  thy  sisters  dear, 

Thou  said'st  would  bide  thy  true-love  there  ? 

"  Hast  thou  forgot  ?     Hast  thou  forgot  ? 
O  love,  my  love,  I  move  thee  not." 


Silent  the  fair  Queen  sat  and  smiled, 
And  heeded  nought  the  Angel's  child, 

For  like  an  image  fashioned  fair 
Still  sat  the  Swain  with  empty  stare. 

These  words  seemed  spoken  not,  but  writ 
As  foolish  tales  through  night-dreams  flit. 

Vague  pictures  passed  before  his  sight, 
As  in  the  first  dream  of  the  night. 


But  the  Maiden  opened  her  basket  fair, 
And  set  two  doves  on  the  table  there. 

And  soft  they  cooed,  and  sweet  they  billed 
Like  man  and  maid  with  love  fulfilled. 

Therewith  the  Maiden  reached  a  hand 
To  a  dish  that  on  the  board  did  stand ; 


308  POEMS  BY  THE   WAY. 

And  she  crumbled  a  share  of  the  spice-loaf  brown, 
And  the  Swain  upon  her  hand  looked  down ; 

Then  unto  the  fowl  his  eyes  he  turned  j 
And  as  in  a  dream  his  bowels  yearned 

For  somewhat  that  he  could  not  name 
And  into  his  heart  a  hope  there  came. 

And  still  he  looked  on  the  hands  of  the  Maid, 
As  before  the  fowl  the  crumbs  she  laid. 

And  he  murmured  low,  "  0  Goldilocks ! 
Were  we  but  amid  the  wheaten  shocks  ! " 

Then  the  false  Queen  knit  her  brows  and  laid 
A  fair  white  hand  by  the  hand  of  the  Maid. 

He  turned  his  eyes  away  thereat, 
And  closer  to  the  Maiden  sat. 


But  the  queen-bird  now  the  carle-bird  fed 
Till  all  was  gone  of  the  sugared  bread. 

Then  with  wheedling  voice  for  more  he  craved, 
And  the  maid  a  share  from  the  spice-loaf  shaved ; 

And  the  crumbs  within  her  hollow  hand 
She  held  where  the  creeping  doves  did  stand. 

But  Goldilocks,  he  looked  and  longed, 

And  saw  how  the  carle  the  queen-bird  wronged. 

For  when  she  came  to  the  hand  to  eat 
The  hungry  queen-bird  thence  he  beat. 

Then  Goldilocks  the  Swain  spake  low : 
"  Foul  fall  thee,  bird,  thou  doest  now 

"  As  I  to  Goldilocks,  my  sweet, 
Who  gave  my  hungry  mouth  to  eat." 

He  felt  her  hand  as  he  did  speak, 
He  felt  her  face  against  his  cheek. 


GOLDILOCKS  AND   GOLDILOCKS.  309 

He  turned  and  stood  in  the  evil  hall, 
And  swept  her  up  in  arms  withal. 

Then  was  there  hubbub  wild  and  strange, 
And  swiftly  all  things  there  'gan  change. 

The  fair  Queen  into  a  troll  was  grown, 
A  one-eyed,  bow-backed,  haggard  crone. 

And  though  the  hall  was  yet  full  fair, 
And  bright  the  sunshine  streamed  in  there, 

On  evil  shapes  it  fell  forsooth: 
Swine-heads ;  small  red  eyes  void  of  ruth ; 

And  bare-boned  bodies  of  vile  things, 
And  evil-feathered  bat-felled  wings. 

And  all  these  mopped  and  mowed  and  grinned, 
And  sent  strange  noises  down  the  wind. 

There  stood  those  twain  unchanged  alone 
To  face  the  horror  of  the  crone ; 

She  crouched  against  them  by  the  board ; 
And  cried  the  Maid :  "  Thy  sword,  thy  sword ! 

"  Thy  sword,  0  Goldilocks  !     For  see 
She  will  not  keep  her  oath  to  me." 

Out  flashed  the  blade  therewith.     He  saw 
The  foul  thing  sidelong  toward  them  draw, 

Holding  within  her  hand  a  cup 
Wherein  some  dreadful  drink  seethed  up. 

Then  Goldilocks  cried  out  and  smote, 

And  the  sharp  blade  sheared  the  evil  throat. 

The  head  fell  noseling  to  the  floor ; 
The  liquor  from  the  cup  did  pour, 

And  ran  along  a  sparkling  flame 
That  nigh  unto  their  footsoles  came. 


310  POEMS  BY  THE   WAY. 

Then  empty  straightway  was  the  hall, 
Save  for  those  twain,  and  she  withal. 

So  fled  away  the  Maid  and  Man, 
And  down  the  stony  stairway  ran. 


Fast  fled  they  o'er  the  sunny  grass, 
Yet  but  a  little  way  did  pass 

Ere  cried  the  Maid  :  "  Now  cometh  forth. 
The  snow-white  ice-bear  of  the  North ; 

"  Turn,  Goldilocks,  and  heave  up  sword ! " 
Then  fast  he  stood  upon  the  sward, 

And  faced  the  beast,  that  whined  and  cried, 
And  shook  his  head  from  side  to  side. 

But  round  him  the  Swain  danced  and  leaped, 
And  soon  the  grisly  head  he  reaped. 

And  then  the  ancient  blade  he  sheathed, 
And  ran  unto  his  love  sweet-breathed ; 

And  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  ran 
Fast  from  that  house,  the  bane  of  man. 


Yet  therewithal  he  spake  her  soft 
And  kissed  her  over  oft  and  oft, 

Until  from  kissed  and  trembling  mouth 
She  cried :  "  The  Dragon  of  the  South !  " 

He  set  her  down  and  turned  about, 
And  drew  the  eager  edges  out. 

And  therewith  scaly  coil  on  coil 
Reared  'gainst  his  face  the  mouth  aboil : 

The  gaping  jaw  and  teeth  of  dread 
Was  dark  'twixt  heaven  and  his  head. 


GOLDILOCKS  AND   GOLDILOCKS.  311 

But  with  no  fear,  no  thought,  no  word, 
He  thrust  the  thin-edged  ancient  sword. 

And  the  hot  blood  ran  from  the  hairy  throat, 
And  set  the  summer  grass  afloat. 

Then  back  he  turned  and  caught  her  hand, 
And  never  a  minute  did  they  stand. 

But  as  they  ran  on  toward  the  wood, 
He  deemed  her  swift  feet  fair  and  good. 


She  looked  back  o'er  her  shoulder  fair  : 
"  The  whelming  poison-pool  is  here ; 

"  And  now  availeth  nought  the  blade  : 
0  if  my  cherished  trees  might  aid ! 

"  But  now  my  feet  fail.     Leave  me  then  1 
And  hold  my  memory  dear  of  men." 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms  again  ; 
Of  her  dear  side  was  he  full  fain. 

Her  body  in  his  arms  was  dear : 

"  Sweet  art  thou,  though  we  perish  here  ! 

Like  quicksilver  came  on  the  flood : 
But  lo,  the  borders  of  the  wood  ! 

She  slid  from  out  his  arms  and  stayed ; 
Round  a  great  oak  her  arms  she  laid. 

"  If  e'er  I  saved  thee,  lovely  tree, 
From  axe  and  saw,  now  succour  me : 

"  Look  how  the  venom  creeps  anigh, 
Help !  lest  thou  see  me  writhe  and  die." 

She  crouched  beside  the  upheaved  root, 
The  bubbling  venom  touched  her  foot ; 

Then  with  a  sucking  gasping  sound 
It  ebbed  back  o'er  the  blighted  ground. 


312  POEMS  BY  THE   WAY. 

Up  then  she  rose  and  took  his  hand 
And  never  a  moment  did  they  stand. 

"Come,  love,"  she  cried,  "the  ways  I  know, 
How  thick  soe'er  the  thickets  grow. 

«  0  love,  I  love  thee !     0  thine  heart ! 
How  mighty  and  how  kind  thou  art ! " 

Therewith  they  saw  the  tree-dusk  lit, 
Bright  grey  the  great  boles  gleamed  on  it. 

"  0  flee,"  she  said,  "  the  sword  is  nought 
Against  the  flickering  fire-flaught." 

"But  this  availeth  yet,"  said  he, 

"  That  Hallows  All  our  love  may  see." 

He  turned  about  and  faced  the  glare: 
"  0  Mother,  help  us,  kind  and  fair ! 

"  Now  help  me,  true  St.  Nicholas, 
If  ever  truly  thine  I  was  ! " 

Therewith  the  wild-fire  waned  and  paled, 
And  in  the  wood  the  light  nigh  failed ; 

And  all  about 't  was  as  the  night. 
He  said :  "  Now  won  is  all  our  fight, 

"  And  now  meseems  all  were  but  good 
If  thou  mightst  bring  us  from  the  wood." 

She  fawned  upon  him,  face  and  breast ; 
She  said :  "  It  hangs  'twixt  worst  and  best. 

"  And  yet,  0  love,  if  thou  be  true, 
One  thing  alone  thou  hast  to  do." 

Sweetly  he  kissed  her,  cheek  and  chin : 
"  What  work  thou  biddest  will  I  win." 

"  0  love,  my  love,  I  needs  must  sleep ; 
Wilt  thou  my  slumbering  body  keep, 


GOLDILOCKS  AND  GOLDILOCKS.  318 

"  And,  toiling  sorely,  still  bear  on 
The  love  thou  seemest  to  have  won  ?  " 

"  O  easy  toil,"  he  said,  "  to  bless 
Mine  arms  with  all  thy  loveliness." 

She  smiled ;  "  Yea,  easy  it  may  seem, 
But  harder  is  it  than  ye  deem. 

"  For  hearken !     Whatso  thou  mayst  see, 
Piteous  as  it  may  seem  to  thee, 

"  Heed  not  nor  hearken !  bear  me  forth, 
As  though  nought  else  were  aught  of  worth. 

"  For  all  earth's  wealth  that  may  be  found 
Lay  me  not  sleeping  on  the  ground, 

"  To  help,  to  hinder,  or  to  save ! 

Or  there  for  me  thou  diggest  a  grave." 


He  took  her  body  on  his  arm, 

Her  slumbering  head  lay  on  his  barm. 

Then  glad  he  bore  her  on  the  way, 
And  the  wood  grew  lighter  with  the  day. 

All  still  it  was,  till  suddenly 
He  heard  a  bitter  wail  near  by. 

Yet  on  he  went  until  he  heard 
The  cry  become  a  shapen  word : 

"  Help  me,  0  help,  thou  passer  by  ! 
Turn  from  the  path,  let  me  not  die  I 

"  I  am  a  woman ;  bound  and  left 
To  perish ;  of  all  help  bereft." 

Then  died  the  voice  out  in  a  moan ; 
He  looked  upon  his  love,  his  own, 

And  minding  all  she  spake  to  him 

Strode  onward  through  the  wild-wood  dim. 


314  POEMS  BY  THE   WAY. 

But  lighter  grew  the  woodland  green 
Till  clear  the  shapes  of  things  were  seen. 

And  therewith  wild  halloos  he  heard, 
And  shrieks,  and  cries  of  one  afeard. 

Nigher  it  grew  and  yet  more  nigh, 
Till  burst  from  out  a  brake  near  by 

A  woman  bare  of  breast  and  limb, 
Who  turned  a  piteous  face  to  him 

E'en  as  she  ran  :  for  hard  at  heel 
Followed  a  man  with  brandished  steel, 

And  yelling  mouth.     Then  the  Swain  stood 
One  moment  in  the  glimmering  wood 

Trembling,  ashamed  :  Yet  now  grown  wise 
Deemed  all  a  snare  for  ears  and  eyes. 

So  onward  swiftlier  still  he  strode 
And  cast  all  thought  on  his  fair  load. 

And  yet  in  but  a  little  space 

Back  came  the  yelling  shrieking  chase, 

And  well-nigh  gripped  now  by  the  man, 
Straight  unto  him  the  woman  ran ; 

And  underneath  the  gleaming  steel 
E'en  at  his  very  feet  did  kneel. 

She  looked  up ;  sobs  were  all  her  speech, 
Yet  sorely  did  her  face  beseech. 

While  o'er  her  head  the  chaser  stared, 
Shaking  aloft  the  edges  bared. 

Doubted  the  Swain,  and  a  while  did  stand 
As  she  took  his  coat-lap  in  her  hand. 

Upon  his  hand  he  felt  her  breath 
Hot  with  the  dread  of  present  death. 


GOLDILOCKS  AND   GOLDILOCKS.  315 

Sleek  was  her  arm  on  his  scarlet  coat, 
The  sobbing  passion  rose  in  his  throat. 

But  e'en  therewith  he  looked  aside 
And  saw  the  face  of  the  sleeping  bride. 

Then  he  tore  his  coat  from  the  woman's  hand, 
And  never  a  moment  there  did  stand. 

But  swiftly  thence  away  he  strode 
Along  the  dusky  forest  road. 

And  there  rose  behind  him  laughter  shrill, 
And  then  was  the  windless  wood  all  still. 

He  looked  around  o'er  all  the  place, 
But  saw  no  image  of  the  chase. 

And  as  he  looked  the  night-mirk  now 
O'er  all  the  tangled  wood  'gan  flow. 

Then  stirred  the  sweetling  that  he  bore, 
And  she  slid  adown  from  his  arms  once  more. 

Nought  might  he  see  her  well-loved  face ; 
But  he  felt  her  lips  in  the  mirky  place. 

«'T  is  night,"  she  said,  "and  the  false  day  's  gone, 
And  we  twain  in  the  wild-wood  all  alone. 

"Night  o'er  the  earth ;  so  rest  we  here 
Until  to-morrow's  sun  is  clear. 

"  For  overcome  is  every  foe 

And  home  to-morrow  shall  we  go." 

So  'neath  the  trees  they  lay,  those  twain, 
And  to  them  the  darksome  night  was  gain. 

But  when  the  morrow's  dawn  was  grey 
They  woke  and  kissed  whereas  they  lay. 

And  when  on  their  feet  they  came  to  stand 
Swain  Goldilocks  stretched  out  his  hand. 


316  POEMS  BY  THE   WAY. 

And  he  spake :  "  0  love,  my  love  indeed, 
Where  now  is  gone  thy  goodly  weed  ? 

"For  again  thy  naked  feet  I  see, 

And  thy  sweet  sleek  arms  so  kind  to  me. 

"  Through  thy  rent  kirtle  once  again 
Thy  shining  shoulder  showeth  plain." 

She  blushed  as  red  as  the  sun-sweet  rose : 
"  My  garments  gay  were  e'en  of  those 

"  That  the  false  Queen  dight  to  slay  my  heart ; 
And  sore  indeed  was  their  fleshly  smart. 

"  Yet  must  I  bear  them,  well-beloved, 
Until  thy  truth  and  troth  was  proved. 

"  And  this  tattered  coat  is  now  for  a  sign 
That  thou  hast  won  me  to  be  thine. 

"  Now  wilt  thou  lead  along  thy  maid 
To  meet  thy  kindred  unafraid." 

As  stoops  the  falcon  on  the  dove 
He  cast  himself  about  her  love. 

He  kissed  her  over,  cheek  and  chin, 
He  kissed  the  sweetness  of  her  skin. 

Then  hand  in  hand  they  went  their  way 
Till  the  wood  grew  light  with  the  outer  day. 

At  last  behind  them  lies  the  wood, 
And  before  are  the  Upland  Acres  good. 

On  the  hill's  brow  awhile  they  stay 
At  midmorn  of  the  merry  day. 

He  sheareth  a  deal  from  his  kirtle  meet, 
To  make  her  sandals  for  her  feet. 

He  windeth  a  wreath  of  the  beechen  tree, 
Lest  men  her  shining  shoulders  see. 


GOLDILOCKS  AND   GOLDILOCKS.  317 

And  a  wreath  of  woodbine  sweet,  to  hide 
The  rended  raiment  of  her  side ; 

And  a  crown  of  poppies  red  as  wine, 
Lest  on  her  head  the  hot  sun  shine. 

She  kissed  her  love  withal  and  smiled : 
"Lead  forth,  0  love,  the  Woodland  Child! 

"Most  meet  and  right  meseems  it  now 
That  I  am  clad  with  the  woodland  bough. 

"  For  betwixt  the  oak-tree  and  the  thorn 
Meseemeth  erewhile  was  I  born. 

"  And  if  my  mother  aught  I  knew, 
It  was  of  the  woodland  folk  she  grew. 

"  And  0  that  thou  art  well  at  ease 
To  wed  the  daughter  of  the  trees ! " 

Now  Goldilocks  and  Goldilocks 

Go  down  amidst  the  wheaten  shocks, 

But  when  anigh  to  the  town  they  come, 
Lo  there  is  the  wain  a-wending  home, 

And  many  a  man  and  maid  beside, 
Who  tossed  the  sickles  up,  and  cried : 

"  0  Goldilocks,  now  whither  away  ? 

And  what  wilt  thou  with  the  woodland  may  ?  " 

"  0  this  is  Goldilocks  my  bride, 

And  we  come  adown  from  the  wild-wood  side, 

"  And  unto  the  Fathers'  House  we  wend 
To  dwell  therein  till  life  shall  end." 

"  Up  then  on  the  wain,  that  ye  may  see 
From  afar  how  thy  mother  bideth  thee. 

"  That  ye  may  see  how  kith  and  kin 
Abide  thee,  bridal  brave  to  win." 


318  POEMS  BY  THE   WAY. 

So  Goldilocks  and  Goldilocks 

Sit  high  aloft  on  the  wheaten  shocks, 

And  fair  maids  sing  before  the  wain, 
For  all  of  Goldilocks  are  fain. 


But  when  they  came  to  the  Fathers'  door, 
There  stood  his  mother  old  and  hoar. 

Yet  was  her  hair  with  grey  but  blent, 
When  forth  from  the  Upland  Town  he  went. 

There  by  the  door  his  sisters  stood ; 
Full  fair  they  were  and  fresh  of  blood; 

Little  they  were  when  he  went  away ; 
Now  each  is  meet  for  a  young  man's  may. 

"  0  tell  me,  Goldilocks,  my  son, 

What  are  the  deeds  that  thou  has  done  ?  " 

"  I  have  wooed  me  a  wife  in  the  forest  wild, 
And  home  I  bring  the  Woodland  Child." 

"  A  little  deed  to  do,  0  son, 

So  long  awhile  as  thou  wert  gone." 

"  0  mother,  yet  is  the  summer  here 
Now  I  bring  aback  my  true-love  dear. 

"  And  therewith  an  Evil  Thing  have  I  slain ; 
Yet  I  come  with  the  first-come  harvest-wain." 

"  0  Goldilocks,  my  son,  my  son ! 

How  good  is  the  deed  that  thou  hast  done  ? 

"  But  how  long  the  time  that  is  worn  away ! 
Lo !  white  is  my  hair  that  was  but  grey. 

"  And  lo  these  sisters  here,  thine  own, 
How  tall,  how  meet  for  men-folk  grown  ! 

"  Come,  see  thy  kin  in  the  feasting-hall, 
And  tell  me  if  thou  knowest  them  all ! 


THE  SON'S  SORROW.  319 

"  0  son,  0  son,  we  are  blithe  and  fain ; 

But  the  autumn  drought,  and  the  winter  rain, 

"  The  frost  and  the  snow,  and  St.  David's  wind, 
All  these  that  were,  time  out  of  mind, 

"  All  these  a  many  times  have  been 
Since  thou  the  Upland  Town  hast  seen." 


Then  never  a  word  spake  Goldilocks 

Till  they  came  adown  from  the  wheaten  shocks. 

And  there  beside  his  love  he  stood 
And  he  saw  her  body  sweet  and  good. 

Then  round  her  love  his  arms  he  cast : 
"  The  years  are  as  a  tale  gone  past. 

"  But  many  the  years  that  yet  shall  be 
Of  the  merry  tale  of  thee  and  me. 

"  Come,  love,  and  look  on  the  Fathers'  Hall, 
And  the  folk  of  the  kindred  one  and  all ! 

"  For  now  the  Fathers'  House  is  kind, 
And  all  the  ill  is  left  behind. 

"  And  Goldilocks  and  Goldilocks 

Shall  dwell  in  the  land  of  the  Wheaten  Shocks." 


THE  SON'S   SOREOW. 
From  the  Icelandic. 

THE  King  has  asked  of  his  son  so  good, 

"  Why  art  thou  hushed  and  heavy  of  mood  ? 

Ofair  it  is  to  ride  abroad. 

Thou  playest  not,  and  thou  laughest  not ; 

All  thy  good  game  is  clean  forgot." 

"  Sit  thou  beside  me,  father  dear, 

And  the  tale  of  my  sorrow  shalt  thou  hear. 


320  POEMS  BY  THE   WAY. 

"  Thou  sendedst  me  unto  a  far-off  land, 
And  gavest  me  into  a  good  Earl's  hand. 

"  Now  had  this  good  Earl  daughters  seven, 
The  fairest  of  maidens  under  heaven. 

"  One  brought  me  my  meat  when  I  should  dine, 
One  cut  and  sewed  my  raiment  fine. 

"  One  washed  and  combed  my  yellow  hair, 
And  one  I  fell  to  loving  there. 

"  Befell  it  on  so  fair  a  day, 

We  minded  us  to  sport  and  play. 

"  Down  in  a  dale  my  horse  bound  I, 
Bound  on  my  saddle  speedily. 

"  Bright  red  she  was  as  the  flickering  flame 
When  to  my  saddle-bow  she  came. 

"  Beside  my  saddle-bow  she  stood, 

'  To  flee  with  thee  to  my  heart  were  good.' 

"Kind  was  my  horse  and  good  to  aid, 
My  love  upon  his  back  I  laid. 

"  We  gat  us  from  the  garth  away, 
And  none  was  ware  of  us  that  day. 

"  But  as  we  rode  along  the  sand 
Behold  a  barge  lay  by  the  land. 

"  So  in  that  boat  did  we  depart, 
And  rowed  away  right  glad  at  heart. 

"  When  we  came  to  the  dark  wood  and  the  shade 
To  raise  the  tent  my  true-love  bade. 

"  Three  sons  my  true-love  bore  me  there, 
And  syne  she  died  who  was  so  dear. 

"  A  grave  I  wrought  her  with  my  sword, 
With  my  fair  shield  the  mould  I  poured. 


GUNNAR'S  HOWZ.  321 

"  First  in  the  mould  I  laid  my  love, 
Then  all  my  sons  her  breast  above. 

"  And  I  without  must  lie  alone ; 
So  from  the  place  I  gat  me  gone." 

No  man  now  shall  stand  on  his  feet 
To  love  that  love,  to  woo  that  sweet : 
Ofair  it  is  to  ride  abroad. 


GUNNAK'S  HOWE  ABOVE  THE  HOUSE  AT 
LITHEND.34 

YE  who  have  come  o'er  the  sea 

to  behold  this  grey  minster  of  lands, 

Whose  floor  is  the  tomb  of  time  past, 

and  whose  walls  by  the  toil  of  dead  hands 

Show  pictures  amidst  of  the  ruin 

of  deeds  that  have  overpast  death, 

Stay  by  this  tomb  in  a  tomb 

to  ask  of  who  lieth  beneath. 

Ah !  the  world  changeth  too  soon, 

that  ye  stand  there  with  unbated  breath, 

As  I  name  him  that  Gunnar  of  old, 

who  erst  in  the  haymaking  tide 

Felt  all  the  land  fragrant  and  fresh, 

as  amidst  of  the  edges  he  died. 

Too  swiftly  fame  fadeth  away, 

if  ye  tremble  not  lest  once  again 

The  grey  mound  should  open  and  show  him 

glad-eyed  without  grudging  or  pain. 

Little  labour  rnethinks  to  behold  him 

but  the  tale-teller  laboured  in  vain. 

Little  labour  for  ears  that  may  hearken 

to  hear  his  death-conquering  song, 

Till  the  heart  swells  to  think  of  the  gladness 

undying  that  overcame  wrong. 

0  young  is  the  world  yet  meseemeth 

and  the  hope  of  it  flourishing  green, 

When  the  words  of  a  man  unremembered 


322  POEMS  BY  THE  WAY. 

so  bridge  all  the  days  that  have  been, 

As  we  look  round  about  on  the  land 

that  these  nine  hundred  years  he  hath  seen. 

Dusk  is  abroad  on  the  grass 

of  this  valley  amidst  of  the  hill : 

Dusk  that  shall  never  be  dark 

till  the  dawn  hard  on  midnight  shall  fill 

The  trench  under  Eyiafell's  snow, 

and  the  grey  plain  the  sea  meeteth  grey. 

White,  high  aloft  hangs  the  moon 

that  no  dark  night  shall  brighten  ere  day, 

For  here  day  and  night  toileth  the  summer 

lest  deedless  his  time  pass  away. 


THE  FOLK-MOTE  BY  THE  EIVEE.85 

IT  was  up  in  the  morn  we  rose  betimes 
From  the  hall-floor  hard  by  the  row  of  limes. 

It  was  but  John  the  Red  and  I, 

And  we  were  the  brethren  of  Gregory ; 

And  Gregory  the  Wright  was  one 
Of  the  valiant  men  beneath  the  sun, 

And  what  he  bade  us  that  we  did 
For  ne'er  he  kept  his  counsel  hid. 

So  out  we  went,  and  the  clattering  latch 
Woke  up  the  swallows  under  the  thatch. 

It  was  dark  in  the  porch,  but  our  scythes  we  felt, 
And  thrust  the  whetstone  under  the  belt. 

Through  the  cold  garden  boughs  we  went 
Where  the  tumbling  roses  shed  their  scent. 

Then  out  a-gates  and  away  we  strode 
O'er  the  dewy  straws  on  the  dusty  road, 


THE  FOLK-MOTE  BY  THE   RIVER.         323 

And  there  was  the  mead  by  the  town-reeve's  close 
Where  the  hedge  was  sweet  with  the  wilding  rose. 

Then  into  the  mowing  grass  we  went 
Ere  the  very  last  of  the  night  was  spent. 

Young  was  the  moon,  and  he  was  gone, 
So  we  whet  our  scythes  by  the  stars  alone : 

But  or  ever  the  long  blades  felt  the  hay 
Afar  in  the  East  the  dawn  was  grey. 

Or  ever  we  struck  our  earliest  stroke 
The  thrush  in  the  hawthorn-bush  awoke. 

While  yet  the  bloom  of  the  swathe  was  dim 
The  blackbird's  bill  had  answered  him. 

Ere  half  of  the  road  to  the  river  was  shorn 
The  sunbeam  smote  the  twisted  thorn. 

Now  wide  was  the  way  'twixt  the  standing  grass 
For  the  townsfolk  unto  the  mote  to  pass, 

And  so  when  all  our  work  was  done 
We  sat  to  breakfast  in  the  sun, 

While  down  in  the  stream  the  dragon-fly 
'Twixt  the  quivering  rushes  flickered  by  ; 

And  though  our  knives  shone  sharp  and  white 
The  swift  bleak  heeded  not  the  sight. 

So  when  the  bread  was  done  away 
We  looked  along  the  new-shorn  hay, 

And  heard  the  voice  of  the  gathering-horn 
Come  over  the  garden  and  the  corn ; 

For  the  wind  was  in  the  blossoming  wheat 
And  drave  the  bees  in  the  lime-boughs  sweet. 

Then  loud  was  the  horn's  voice  drawing  near, 
And  it  hid  the  talk  of  the  prattling  weir. 


324  POEMS  BY  THE  WAY. 

And  now  was  the  horn  on  the  pathway  wide 
That  we  had  shorn  to  the  river-side. 

So  up  we  stood,  and  wide  around 

We  sheared  a  space  by  the  Elders'  Mound ; 

And  at  the  feet  thereof  it  was 

That  highest  grew  the  June-tide  grass  j 

And  over  all  the  mound  it  grew 
With  clover  blent,  and  dark  of  hue. 

But  never  aught  of  the  Elders'  Hay 
To  rick  or  barn  was  borne  away. 

But  it  was  bound  and  burned  to  ash 
In  the  barren  close  by  the  reedy  plash. 

For  'neath  that  mound  the  valiant  dead 
Lay  hearkening  words  of  valiance  said 

When  wise  men  stood  on  the  Elders'  Mound, 
And  the  swords  were  shining  bright  around. 


And  now  we  saw  the  banners  borne 
On  the  first  of  the  way  that  we  had  shorn ; 
So  we  laid  the  scythe  upon  the  sward 
And  girt  us  to  the  battle-sword. 

For  after  the  banners  well  we  knew 
Were  the  freemen  wending  two  and  two. 

There  then  that  highway  of  the  scythe 
With  many  a  hue  was  brave  and  blythe. 

And  first  below  the  Silver  Chief 
Upon  the  green  was  the  golden  sheaf. 

And  on  the  next  that  went  by  it 
The  White  Hart  in  the  Park  did  sit. 


Then  on  the  red  the  White  Wings  flew, 
And  on  the  White  was  the  Cloud-fleck  bli 


THE  FOLK-MOTE  BY  THE  RIVER.         325 

Last  went  the  Anchor  of  the  Wrights 
Beside  the  Ship  of  the  Faring-Knights. 

Then  thronged  the  folk  the  June-tide  field 
With  naked  sword  and  painted  shield, 

Till  they  came  adown  to  the  river-side, 
And  there  by  the  mound  did  they  abide. 

Now  when  the  swords  stood  thick  and  white 
As  the  mace  reeds  stand  in  the  streamless  bight, 

There  rose  a  man  on  the  mound  alone 
And  over  his  head  was  the  grey  mail  done, 

When  over  the  new-shorn  place  of  the  field 
Was  nought  but  the  steel  hood  and  the  shield. 

The  face  on  the  mound  shone  ruddy  and  hale, 
But  the  hoar  hair  showed  from  the  hoary  mail. 

And  there  rose  a  hand  by  the  ruddy  face 
And  shook  a  sword  o'er  the  peopled  place. 

And  there  came  a  voice  from  the  mound  and  said : 
"  0  sons,  the  days  of  my  youth  are  dead, 

"  And  gone  are  the  faces  I  have  known 

In  the  street  and  the  booths  of  the  goodly  town. 

"  0  sons,  full  many  a  flock  have  I  seen 
Peed  down  this  water-girdled  green. 

"  Full  many  a  herd  of  long-horned  neat 
Have  I  seen  'twixt  water-side  and  wheat. 

"  Here  by  this  water-side  full  oft 
Have  I  heaved  the  flowery  hay  aloft. 

"  And  oft  this  water-side  anigh 

Have  I  bowed  adown  the  wheat-stalks  high. 

"  And  yet  meseems  I  live  and  learn 
And  lore  of  younglings  yet  must  earn. 


326  POEMS  BY  THE   WAY. 

"For  tell  me,  children,  whose  are  these 
Fair  meadows  of  the  June's  increase  ? 

"  Whose  are  these  flocks  and  whose  the  neat, 
And  whose  the  acres  of  the  wheat  ?  " 


Scarce  did  we  hear  his  latest  word, 
On  the  wide  shield  so  rang  the  sword. 

So  rang  the  sword  upon  the  shield 

That  the  lark  was  hushed  above  the  field. 

Then  sank  the  shouts  and  again  we  heard 
The  old  voice  come  from  the  hoary  beard : 

"Yea,  whose  are  yonder  gables  then, 
And  whose  the  holy  hearths  of  men  ? 
Whose  are  the  prattling  children  there, 
And  whose  the  sunburnt  maids  and  fair  ? 

"  Whose  thralls  are  ye,  hereby  that  stand, 
Bearing  the  freeman's  sword  in  hand  ?  " 

As  glitters  the  sun  in  the  rain-washed  grass, 
So  in  the  tossing  swords  it  was ; 

As  the  thunder  rattles  along  and  adown 
E'en  so  was  the  voice  of  the  weaponed  town. 

And  there  was  the  steel  of  the  old  man's  sword, 
And  there  was  his  hollow  voice,  and  his  word: 


"  Many  men,  many  minds,  the  old  saw  saith, 
Though  hereof  ye  be  sure  as  death. 

"  For  what  spake  the  herald  yestermorn 
But  this,  that  ye  were  thrall-folk  born ; 

"  That  the  lord  that  owneth  all  and  some 
Would  send  his  men  to  fetch  us  home 

"  Betwixt  the  haysel,  and  the  tide 

When  they  shear  the  corn  in  the  country-side  ? 


THE  FOLK-MOTE  BY  THE  RIVER.         327 

"  0  children,  Who  was  the  lord  ?  ye  say, 
What  prayer  to  him  did  our  fathers  pray  ? 

"  Did  they  hold  out  hands  his  gyves  to  bear  ? 
Did  their  knees  his  high  hall's  pavement  wear  ? 

"  Is  his  house  built  up  in  heaven  aloft  ? 
Doth  he  make  the  sun  rise  oft  and  oft  ? 

"  Doth  he  hold  the  rain  in  his  hollow  hand  ? 
Hath  he  cleft  this  water  through  the  land  ? 

"  Or  doth  he  stay  the  summer-tide, 
And  make  the  winter  days  abide  ? 

"  0  children,  Who  is  the  lord  ?  ye  say, 
Have  we  heard  his  name  before  to-day  ? 

"  0  children,  if  his  name  I  know, 

He  hight  Earl  Hugh  of  the  Shivering  Low : 

"  For  that  herald  bore  on  back  and  breast 
The  Black  Burg  under  the  Eagle's  Nest." 


As  the  voice  of  the  winter  wind  that  tears 

At  the  eaves  of  the  thatch  and  its  emptied  ears, 

E'en  so  was  the  voice  of  laughter  and  scorn 
By  the  water-side  in  the  rnead  new-shorn ; 

And  over  the  garden  and  the  wheat 
Went  the  voice  of  women  shrilly-sweet. 


But  now  by  the  hoary  elder  stood 
A  carle  in  raiment  red  as  blood. 

Eed  was  his  weed  and  his  glaive  was  .white, 
And  there  stood  Gregory  the  Wright. 

So  he  spake  in  a  voice  was  loud  and  strong : 
"  Young  is  the  day  though  the  road  is  long ; 


328  POEMS  BY  THE   WAY. 

"  There  is  time  if  we  tarry  not  at  all 

For  the  kiss  in  the  porch  and  the  meat  in  the  hall. 

"  And  safe  shall  our  maidens  sit  at  home 
For  the  foe  by  the  way  we  wend  must  come. 

u  Through  the  three  Lavers  shall  we  go 
And  raise  them  all  against  the  foe. 

"  Then  shall  we  wend  the  Downland  ways, 
And  all  the  shepherd  spearmen  raise. 

«  To  Cheaping  Eaynes  shall  we  come  adown 
And  gather  the  bowmen  of  the  town  ; 

"  And  Greenstead  next  we  come  unto 
Wherein  are  all  folk  good  and  true. 

"  When  we  come  our  ways  to  the  Outer  Wood 
We  shall  be  an  host  both  great  and  good ; 

"  Yea  when  we  come  to  the  open  field 
There  shall  be  a  many  under  shield. 

"  And  maybe  Earl  Hugh  shall  lie  alow 
And  yet  to  the  house  of  Heaven  shall  go. 

"  But  we  shall  dwell  in  the  land  we  love 
And  grudge  no  hallow  Heaven  above. 

"  Come  ye,  who  think  the  time  o'er  long 
Till  we  have  slain  the  word  of  wrong ! 

"Come  ye  who  deem  the  life  of  fear 
On  this  last  day  hath  drawn  o'er  near  I 

"  Come  after  me  upon  the  road 
That  leadeth  to  the  Erne's  abode." 


Down  then  he  leapt  from  off  the  mound 
And  back  drew  they  that  were  around 

Till  he  was  foremost  of  all  those 
Betwixt  the  river  and  the  close. 


THE  BURGHERS'  BATTLE.  329 

And  uprose  shouts  both  glad  and  strong 
As  followed  after  all  the  throng ; 

And  overhead  the  banners  flapped, 

As  we  went  on  our  ways  to  all  that  happed. 


The  fields  before  the  Shivering  Low 
Of  many  a  grief  of  manf oik  know ; 

There  may  the  autumn  acres  tell 
Of  how  men  met,  and  what  befell. 

The  Black  Burg  under  the  Eagle's  nest 
Shall  tell  the  tale  as  it  liketh  best. 

And  sooth  it  is  that  the  Kiver-land 
Lacks  many  an  autumn-gathering  hand. 

And  there  are  troth-plight  maids  unwed 
Shall  deem  a  while  that  love  is  dead ; 

And  babes  there  are  to  men  shall  grow 
Nor  ever  the  face  of  their  fathers  know. 

And  yet  in  the  Land  by  the  Eiver-side 
Doth  never  a  thrall  or  an  earl's  man  bide ; 

For  Hugh  the  Earl  of  might  and  mirth 
Hath  left  the  merry  days  of  Earth  ; 

And  we  live  on  in  the  land  we  love, 
And  grudge  no  hallow  Heaven  above. 


THE  BURGHERS'  BATTLE.36 

THICK  rise  the  spear-shafts  o'er  the  land 
That  erst  the  harvest  bore ; 
The  sword  is  heavy  in  the  hand, 
And  we  return  no  more. 


330  POEMS  BY  THE   WAY. 

The  light  wind  waves  the  Ruddy  Fox, 
Our  banner  of  the  war, 
And  ripples  in  the  Running  Ox, 
And  we  return  no  more. 

Across  our  stubble  acres  now 

The  teams  go  four  and  four ; 

But  out-worn  elders  guide  the  plough, 

And  we  return  no  more. 

And  now  the  women  heavy -eyed 
Turn  through  the  open  door 
From  gazing  down  the  highway  wide, 
Where  we  return  no  more. 

The  shadows  of  the  fruited  close 
Dapple  the  feast-hall  floor ; 
There  lie  our  dogs  and  dream  and  doze, 
And  we  return  no  more. 

Down  from  the  minster  tower  to-day 
Fall  the  soft  chimes  of  yore 
Amidst  the  chattering  jackdaws'  play: 
And  we  return  no  more. 

But  underneath  the  streets  are  still ; 
Noon,  and  the  market's  o'er ! 
Back  go  the  good  wives  o'er  the  hill ; 
For  we  return  no  more. 

What  merchant  to  our  gates  shall  come  ? 
What  wise  man  bring  us  lore  ? 
What  abbot  ride  away  to  Rome, 
Now  we  return  no  more  1 

What  mayor  shall  rule  the  hall  we  built  ? 
Whose  scarlet  sweep  the  floor  ? 
What  judge  shall  doom  the  robber's  guilt, 
Now  we  return  no  more  ? 

New  houses  in  the  street  shall  rise 
Where  builded  we  before, 
Of  other  stone  wrought  otherwise ; 
For  ice  return  no  more. 


THE   VOICE  OF  TOIL.  331 

And  crops  shall  cover  field  and  hill 
Unlike  what  once  they  bore, 
And  all  be  done  without  our  will, 
Now  we  return  no  more. 

Look  up !  the  arrows  streak  the  sky, 
The  horns  of  battle  roar ; 
The  long  spears  lower  and  draw  nigh, 
And  we  return  no  more. 

Eemember  how  beside  the  wain, 
We  spoke  the  word  of  war, 
And  sowed  this  harvest  of  the  plain, 
And  we  return  no  more. 

Lay  spears  about  the  Ruddy  Fox ! 
The  days  of  old  are  o'er ; 
Heave  sword  about  the  Running  Ox ! 
For  we  return  no  more. 


THE  VOICE  OF  TOIL.37 

I  HEARD  men  saying,  Leave  hope  and  praying, 
All  days  shall  be  as  all  have  been ; 
To-day  and  to-morrow  bring  fear  and  sorrow, 
The  never-ending  toil  between. 

When  Earth  was  younger  mid  toil  and  hunger, 
In  hope  we  strove,  and  our  hands  were  strong ; 
Then  great  men  led  us,  with  words  they  fed  us, 
And  bade  us  right  the  earthly  wrong. 

Go  read  in  story  their  deeds  and  glory, 
Their  names  amidst  the  nameless  dead ; 
Turn  then  from  lying  to  us  slow-dying 
In  that  good  world  to  which  they  led ; 

Where  fast  and  faster  our  iron  master, 
The  thing  we  made,  for  ever  drives, 
Bids  us  grind  treasure  and  fashion  pleasure 
For  other  hopes  and  other  lives. 


832  POEMS  BY  THE  WAY. 

Where  home  is  a  hovel  and  dull  we  grovel, 
Forgetting  that  the  world  is  fair ; 
Where  no  babe  we  cherish,  lest  its  very  soul  perish ; 
Where  mirth  is  crime,  and  love  a  snare. 

Who  now  shall  lead  us,  what  god  shall  heed  us 
As  we  lie  in  the  hell  our  hands  have  won  ? 
For  us  are  no  rulers  but  fools  and  befoolers, 
The  great  are  fallen,  the  wise  men  gone. 

I  heard  men  saying,  Leave  tears  and  praying, 
The  sharp  knife  heedeth  not  the  sheep  ; 
Are  we  not  stronger  than  the  rich  and  the  wronger, 
When  day  breaks  over  dreams  and  sleep  ? 

Come,  shoulder  to  shoulder  ere  the  world  grows  older ! 

Help  lies  in  nought  but  thee  and  me ; 

Hope  is  before  us,  the  long  years  that  bore  us 

Bore  leaders  more  than  men  may  be. 

Let  dead  hearts  tarry  and  trade  and  marry, 
And  trembling  nurse  their  dreams  of  mirth, 
While  we  the  living  our  lives  are  giving 
To  bring  the  bright  new  world  to  birth. 

Come,  shoulder  to  shoulder  ere  earth  grows  older  I 
The  Cause  spreads  over  land  and  sea ; 
Now  the  world  shaketh,  and  fear  awaketh, 
And  joy  at  last  for  thee  and  me. 


THE  DAY  IS  COMING. 

COME  hither,  lads,  and  hearken, 

for  a  tale  there  is  to  tell, 

Of  the  wonderful  days  a-coming,  when  all 

shall  be  better  than  well. 

And  the  tale  shall  be  told  of  a  country, 
a  land  in  the  midst  of  the  sea, 
And  folk  shall  call  it  England 
in  the  days  that  are  going  to  be. 


THE  DAY  IS  COMING. 

There  more  than  one  in  a  thousand 
in  the  days  that  are  yet  to  come, 
Shall  have  some  hope  of  the  morrow, 
some  joy  of  the  ancient  home. 

For  then,  laugh  not,  but  listen 
to  this  strange  tale  of  mine, 
All  folk  that  are  in  England 
shall  be  better  lodged  than  swine. 

Then  a  man  shall  work  and  bethink  him, 
and  rejoice  in  the  deeds  of  his  hand, 
Nor  yet  come  home  in  the  even 
too  faint  and  weary  to  stand. 

Men  in  that  time  a-coming 
shall  work  and  have  no  fear 
For  to-morrow's  lack  of  earning 
and  the  hunger-wolf  anear. 

I  tell  you  this  for  a  wonder, 
that  no  man  then  shall  be  glad 
Of  his  fellow's  fall  and  mishap 
to  snatch  at  the  work  he  had. 

For  that  which  the  worker  winneth 
shall  then  be  his  indeed, 
Nor  shall  half  be  reaped  for  nothing 
by  him  that  sowed  no  seed. 

O  strange  new  wonderful  justice  ! 
But  for  whom  shall  we  gather  the  gain  ? 
For  ourselves  and  for  each  of  our  fellows, 
and  no  hand  shall  labour  in  vain. 

Then  all  Mine  and  all  Thine  shall  be  Ours, 
and  no  more  shall  any  man  crave 
For  riches  that  serve  for  nothing 
but  to  fetter  a  friend  for  a  slave. 

And  what  wealth  then  shall  be  left  us 
when  none  shall  gather  gold 
To  buy  his  friend  in  the  market, 
and  pinch  and  pine  the  sold  ? 


334  POEMS  BY  THE   WAY. 

Nay,  what  save  the  lovely  city, 

and  the  little  house  on  the  hill, 

And  the  waste  and  the  woodland  beauty, 

and  the  happy  fields  we  till ; 

And  the  homes  of  ancient  stories, 
the  tombs  of  the  mighty  dead ; 
And  the  wise  men  seeking  out  marvels, 
and  the  poet's  teeming  head ; 

And  the  painter's  hand  of  wonder ; 
and  the  marvellous  fiddle-bow, 
And  the  banded  choirs  of  music ; 
all  those  that  do  and  know. 

For  all  these  shall  be  ours  and  all  men's, 

nor  shall  any  lack  a  share 

Of  the  toil  and  the  gain  of  living 

in  the  days  when  the  world  grows  fair. 


Ah !  such  are  the  days  that  shall  be  I 
But  what  are  the  deeds  of  to-day 
In  the  days  of  the  years  we  dwell  in, 
that  wear  our  lives  away  ? 

Why,  then,  and  for  what  are  we  waiting  ? 
There  are  three  words  to  speak  ; 
WE  WILL  IT,  and  what  is  the  foeman 
but  the  dream-strong  wakened  and  weak  ? 

0  why  and  for  what  are  we  waiting  ? 
while  our  brothers  droop  and  die, 
And  on  every  wind  of  the  heavens 
a  wasted  life  goes  by. 

How  long  shall  they  reproach  us 
where  crowd  on  crowd  they  dwell, 
Poor  ghosts  of  the  wicked  city, 
the  gold-crushed  hungry  hell  ? 

Through  squalid  life  they  laboured, 
in  sordid  grief  they  died, 
Those  sons  of  a  mighty  mother, 
those  props  of  England's  pride. 


THE  MESSAGE   OF  THE  MARCH  WIND.    335 

They  are  gone ;  there  is  none  can  undo  it, 
nor  save  our  souls  from  the  curse ; 
But  many  a  million  cometh, 
and  shall  they  be  better  or  worse  ? 

It  is  we  must  answer  and  hasten, 
and  open  wide  the  door 
For  the  rich  man's  hurrying  terror, 
and  the  slow-foot  hope  of  the  poor. 

Yea,  the  voiceless  wrath  of  the  wretched, 
and  their  unlearned  discontent, 
We  must  give  it  voice  and  wisdom 
till  the  waiting-tide  be  spent. 

Come,  then,  since  all  things  call  us, 
the  living  and  the  dead, 
And  o'er  the  weltering  tangle 
a  glimmering  light  is  shed. 

Come,  then,  let  us  cast  off  fooling, 
and  put  by  ease  and  rest, 
For  the  Cause  alone  is  worthy 
till  the  good  days  bring  the  best. 

Come,  join  in  the  only  battle 
wherein  no  man  can  fail, 
Where  whoso  fadeth  and  dieth, 
yet  his  deed  shall  still  prevail. 

Ah !  come,  cast  off  all  fooling, 

for  this,  at  least,  we  know : 

That  the  Dawn  and  the  Day  is  coming, 

and  forth  the  Banners  go. 


THE  MESSAGE  OF  THE   MAECH  WIND.38 

FAIB  now  is  the  spring-tide,  now  earth  lies  beholding 
With  the  eyes  of  a  lover,  the  face  of  the  sun ; 
Long  lasteth  the  daylight,  and  hope  is  enfolding 
The  green-growing  acres  with  increase  begun. 


336  POEMS  BY  THE  WAY. 

Now  sweet,  sweet  it  is  through  the  land  to  be  straying 
'Mid  the  birds  and  the  blossoms  and  the  beasts  of  the 

field; 

Love  mingles  with  love,  and  no  evil  is  weighing 
On  thy  heart  or  mine,  where  all  sorrow  is  healed. 

From  township  to  township,  o'er  down  and  by  tillage 
Fair,  far  have  we  wandered  and  long  was  the  day ; 
But  now  cometh  eve  at  the  end  of  the  village, 
Where  over  the  grey  wall  the  church  riseth  grey. 

There  is  wind  in  the  twilight ;  in  the  white  road  before  us 
The  straw  from  the  ox-yard  is  blowing  about ; 
The  moon's  rim  is  rising,  a  star  glitters  o'er  us, 
And  the  vane  on  the  spire-top  is  swinging  in  doubt. 

Down  there  dips  the  highway,  toward  the  bridge  cross- 
ing over 

The  brook  that  runs  on  to  the  Thames  and  the  sea. 
Draw  closer,  my  sweet,  we  are  lover  and  lover ; 
This  eve  art  thou  given  to  gladness  and  me. 

Shall  we  be  glad  always  ?     Come  closer  and  hearken : 
Three  fields  further  on,  as  they  told  me  down  there, 
When  the  young  moon  has  set,  if  the  March  sky  should 

darken, 
We  might  see  from  the  hill-top  the  great  city's  glare. 

Hark,   the  wind  in  the  elm-boughs!   from  London  it 

bloweth, 

And  telleth  of  gold,  and  of  hope  and  unrest ; 
Of  power  that  helps  not ;  of  wisdom  that  kuoweth, 
But  teacheth  not  aught  of  the  worst  and  the  best. 

Of  the  rich  men  it  telleth,  and  strange  is  the  story 
How  they  have,  and  they  hanker,  and  grip  far  and  wide ; 
And  they  live  and  they  die,  and  the  earth  and  its  glory 
Has  been  but  a  burden  they  scarce  might  abide. 

Hark !  the  March  wind  again  of  a  people  is  telling ; 
Of  the  life  that  they  live  there,  so  haggard  and  grim, 
That  if  we  and  our  love  amidst  them  had  been  dwelling 
My  fondness  had  faltered,  thy  beauty  grown  dim. 


THE  MESSAGE   OF  THE  MARCH  WIND.     337 

This  land  we  have  loved  in  our  love  and  our  leisure 
For  them  hangs  in  heaven,  high  out  of  their  reach ; 
The  wide  hills  o'er  the  sea-plain  for  them  have  no 

pleasure, 
The  grey  homes  of  their  fathers  no  story  to  teach. 

The  singers  have  sung  and  the  builders  have  builded, 

The  painters  have  fashioned  their  tales  of  delight ; 

For  what  and  for  whom  hath  the  world's  book  been 

gilded, 
When  all  is  for  these  but  the  blackness  of  night  ? 

How  long,  and  for  what  is  their  patience  abiding  ? 
How  oft  and  how  oft  shall  their  story  be  told, 
While  the  hope  that  none  seeketh  in  darkness  is  hiding, 
And  in  grief  and  in  sorrow  the  world  groweth  old  ? 

Come  back  to  the  inn,  love,  and  the  lights  and  the  fire, 
And  the  fiddler's  old  tune  and  the  shuffling  of  feet ; 
For  there  in  a  while  shall  be  rest  and  desire, 
And  there  shall  the  morrow's  uprising  be  sweet. 

Yet,  love,  as  we  wend,  the  wind  bloweth  behind  us, 
And  beareth  the  last  tale  it  telleth  to-night, 
How  here  in  the  spring-tide  the  message  shall  find  us ; 
For  the  hope  that  none  seeketh  is  coming  to  light. 

Like  the  seed  of  mid-winter,  unheeded,  unperished, 
Like  the  autumn-sown  wheat  'neath  the  snow  lying 

green, 

Like  the  love  that  o'ertook  us,  unawares  and  uncherished, 
Like  the  babe  'neath  thy  girdle  that  groweth  unseen ; 

So  the  hope  of  the  people  now  buddeth  and  groweth, 
Rest  fadeth  before  it,  and  blindness  and  fear ; 
It  biddeth  us  learn  all  the  wisdom  it  knoweth ; 
It  hath  found  us  and  held  us,  and  biddeth  us  hear : 

For  it  beareth  the  message :  "  Rise  up  on  the  morrow 
And  go  on  your  ways  toward  the  doubt  and  the  strife ; 
Join  hope  to  our  hope  and  blend  sorrow  with  sorrow, 
And  seek  for  men's  love  in  the  short  days  of  life." 


338  POEMS  BY  THE   WAY. 

But  lo,  the  old  inn,  and  the  lights  and  the  fire, 
And  the  fiddler's  old  tune  and  the  shuffling  of  feet  j 
Soon  for  us  shall  be  quiet  and  rest  and  desire, 
And  to-morrow's  uprising  to  deeds  shall  be  sweet. 


DRAWING  NEAR  THE  LIGHT. 

Lo,  when  we  wade  the  tangled  wood, 
In  haste  and  hurry  to  be  there, 
Nought  seem  its  leaves  and  blossoms  good, 
For  all  that  they  be  fashioned  fair. 

But  looking  up,  at  last  we  see 
The  glimmer  of  the  open  light, 
From  o'er  the  place  where  we  would  be : 
Then  grow  the  very  brambles  bright. 

So  now,  amidst  our  day  of  strife, 
With  many  a  matter  glad  we  play, 
When  once  we  see  the  light  of  life 
Gleam  through  the  tangle  of  to-day. 


MINE  AND  THINE. 
From  a  Flemish  Poem  of  the  Fourteenth  Century. 

Two  words  about  the  world  we  see, 
And  nought  but  Mine  and  Thine  they  be. 
Ah  !  might  we  drive  them  forth  and  wide 
With  us  should  rest  and  peace  abide ; 
All  free,  nought  owned  of  goods  and  gear, 
By  men  and  women  though  it  were. 
Common  to  all  all  wheat  and  wine 
Over  the  seas  and  up  the  Rhine. 
No  manslayer  then  the  wide  world  o'er 
When  Mine  and  Thine  are  known  no  more. 
Yea,  God,  well  counselled  for  our  health, 
Gave  all  this  fleeting  earthly  wealth 
A  common  heritage  to  all, 
That  men  might  feed  them  therewithal, 


A   DEATH   SONG.  339 

And  clothe  their  limbs  and  shoe  their  feet 
And  live  a  simple  life  and  sweet. 
But  now  so  rageth  greediness 
That  each  desireth  nothing  less 
Than  all  the  world,  and  all  his  own  j 
And  all  for  him  and  him  alone. 


A  DEATH   SONG.39 

WHAT  cometh  here  from  west  to  east  awending  ? 
And  who  are  these,  the  marchers  stern  and  slow  ? 
We  bear  the  message  that  the  rich  are  sending 
Aback  to  those  who  bade  them  wake  and  know. 
Not  one,  not  one,  nor  thousands  must  they  slay, 
But  one  and  all  if  they  would  dusk  the  day. 

We  ask  them  for  a  life  of  toilsome  earning, 
They  bade  us  bide  their  leisure  for  our  bread ; 
We  crave  to  speak  to  tell  our  woeful  learning : 
We  come  back  speechless,  bearing  back  our  dead. 
Not  one,  not  one,  nor  thousands  must  they  slay, 
But  one  and  all  if  they  would  dusk  the  day. 

They  will  not  learn ;  they  have  no  ears  to  hearken. 
They  turn  their  faces  from  the  eyes  of  fate ; 
Their  gay -lit  halls  shut  out  the  skies  that  darken. 
But,  lo !  this  dead  man  knocking  at  the  gate. 
Not  one,  not  one,  nor  thousands  must  they  slay, 
But  one  and  all  if  they  would  dusk  the  day. 

Here  lies  the  sign  that  we  shall  break  our  prison ; 
Amidst  the  storm  he  won  a  prisoner's  rest ; 
But  in  the  cloudy  dawn  the  sun  arisen 
Brings  us  our  day  of  work  to  win  the  best. 
Not  one,  not  one,  nor  thousands  must  they  slay} 
But  one  and  all  if  they  would  dusk  the  day. 


340  POEMS  BY  THE   WAY. 


DOWN  AMONG  THE  DEAD  MEN. 

COME,  comrades,  come,  your  glasses  clink ; 
Up  with  your  hands  a  health  to  drink, 
The  health  of  all  that  workers  be, 
In  every  land,  on  every  sea. 

And  he  that  will  this  health  deny, 

Down  among  the  dead  men,  down  among  the  dead  men, 

Down,  down,  down,  down, 

Down  among  the  dead  men  let  him  lie  1 

Well  done !  now  drink  another  toast, 
And  pledge  the  gathering  of  the  host, 
The  people  armed  in  brain  and  hand, 
To  claim  their  rights  in  every  land. 
And  he  that  will,  etc. 

There's  liquor  left;  come,  let's  be  kind, 
And  drink  the  rich  a  better  mind, 
That  when  we  knock  upon  the  door, 
They  may  be  off  and  say  no  more. 
And  he  that  will,  etc. 

Now,  comrades,  let  the  glass  blush  red, 
Drink  we  the  unforgotten  dead 
That  did  their  deeds  and  went  away, 
Before  the  bright  sun  brought  the  day. 
And  he  that  will,  etc. 

The  Day?  Ah,  friends,  late  grows  the  night; 
Drink  to  the  glimmering  spark  of  light, 
The  herald  of  the  joy  to  be, 
The  battle  torch  of  thee  and  me  I 
And  he  that  will,  etc. 

Take  yet  another  cup  in  hand 
And  drink  in  hope  our  little  band ; 
Drink  strife  in  hope  while  lasteth  breath, 
And  brotherhood  in  life  and  death ; 
And  he  that  will,  etc. 


SONGS  FROM  LOVE  IS  ENOUGH.          341 


SONGS  FKOM  LOVE  IS  ENOUGH.40 
SONG  FOB  Music. 

LOVE  is  enough :  though  the  world  be  a-waning 

And  the  woods  have  no  voice  but  the  voice  of  complaining, 

Though  the  sky  be  too  dark  for  dim  eyes  to  discover 
The  gold-cups  and  daisies  fair  blooming  thereunder, 
Though  the  hills  be  held  shadows,  and  the  sea  a  dark 
wonder, 

And  this  day  draw  a  veil  over  all  deeds  passed  over, 
Yet  their  hands  shall  not  tremble,  their  feet  shall  not 

falter, 
The  void  shall  not  weary,  the  fear  shall  not  alter 

These  lips  and  these  eyes  of  the  loved  and  the  lover. 

SONG  FOB  Music. 

Love  is  enough :  it  grew  up  without  heeding 

In  the  days  when  ye  knew  not  its  name  nor  its  measure, 
And  its  leaflets  untrodden  by  the  light  feet  of  pleasure 

Had  no  boast  of  the  blossom,  no  sign  of  the  seeding, 
As  the  morning  and  evening  passed  over  its  treasure. 

And  what  do  ye  say  then  ?  —  that  Spring  long  departed 
Has  brought  forth  no  child  to  the  softness  and  showers ; 

—  That  we  slept  and  we  dreamed  through  the  Summer  of 
flowers ; 

We  dreamed  of  the  Winter,  and  waking  dead-hearted 
Found  Winter  upon  us  and  waste  of  dull  hours. 

Nay,  Spring  was  o'er  happy  and  knew  not  the  reason, 
And  Summer  dreamed  sadly,  for  she  thought  all  was 

ended 

In  her  fulness  of  wealth  that  might  not  be  amended ; 
But  this  is  the  harvest  and  the  garnering  season, 

And  the  leaf  and  the  blossom  in  the  ripe  fruit  are 
blended. 


342  POEMS  BY  THE   WAY. 

It  sprang  without  sowing,  it  grew  without  heeding, 
Ye  knew  not  its  name  and  ye  knew  not  its  measure, 
Ye  noted  it  not  mid  your  hope  and  your  pleasure  ; 

There  was  pain  in  its  blossom,  despair  in  its  seeding, 
But  daylong  your  bosom  now  nurseth  its  treasure. 

SONG  FOR  Music. 

Dawn  talks  to-day 

Over  dew-gleaming  flowers, 
Night  flies  away 

Till  the  resting  of  hours : 
Fresh  are  thy  feet 

And  with  dreams  thine  eyes  glistening, 
Thy  still  lips  are  sweet 

Though  the  world  is  a-listening. 
0  Love,  set  a  word  in  my  mouth  for  our  meeting, 
Cast  thine  arms  round  about  me  to  stay  my  heart's  beating ! 
0  fresh  day,  0  fair  day,  0  long  day  made  ours ! 

Morn  shall  meet  noon 

While  the  flower-stems  yet  move, 
Though  the  wind  dieth  soon 
And  the  clouds  fade  above. 
Loved  lips  are  thine 

As  I  tremble  and  hearken ; 
Bright  thine  eyes  shine, 

Though  the  leaves  thy  brow  darken. 
0  Love,  kiss  me  into  silence,  lest  no  word  avail  me, 
Stay  my  head  with  thy  bosom  lest  breath  and  life  fail  me ! 
0  sweet  day,  0  rich  day,  made  long  for  our  love  ! 

Late  day  shall  greet  eve, 

And  the  full  blossoms  shake, 
For  the  wind  will  not  leave 

The  tall  trees  while  they  wake. 
Eyes  soft  with  bliss, 

Come  nigher  and  nigher ! 
Sweet  mouth  I  kiss, 

Tell  me  all  thy  desire  ! 

Let  us  speak,  love,  together  some  words  of  our  story, 

That  our  lips  as  they  part  may  remember  the  glory ! 

0  soft  day,  0  calm  day,  made  clear  for  our  sake  ! 


VERSES  FOR  A   BED  HANGING.  343 

Eve  shall  kiss  night, 

And  the  leaves  stir  like  rain 
As  the  wind  stealeth  light 

O'er  the  grass  of  the  plain. 
Unseen  are  thine  eyes 

Mid  the  dreamy  night's  sleeping, 
And  on  my  mouth  there  lies 

The  dear  rain  of  thy  weeping. 

Hold,  silence,  love,  speak  not  of  the  sweet  day  departed, 
Cling  close  to  me,  love,  lest  I  waken  sad-hearted  ! 
0  kind  day,  0  dear  day,  short  day,  come  again ! 


VERSES  FOR  A  BED  HANGING.41 

THE  wind 's  on  the  wold, 
And  the  night  is  a-cold, 
And  Thames  runs  Chill 
'Twixt  mead  and  hill. 
But  kind  and  dear 
Is  the  old  house  here, 
And  my  heart  is  warm 
'Midst  winter's  harm. 

Rest,  then,  and  rest, 
And  think  of  the  best. 
'Twixt  summer  and  spring 
When  all  birds  sing 
In  the  town  of  the  tree ; 
And  ye  lie  in  me, 
And  scarce  dare  move 
Lest  earth  and  its  love 
Should  fade  away 
Ere  the  full  of  the  day. 

I  am  old,  and  have  seen 
Many  things  that  have  been, 
Both  quiet  and  peace, 
And  wane  and  increase  ; 
No  tale  I  tell 
Of  ill  or  well, 
But  this  I  say, 
Night  treadeth  on  day 
And  for  worst  and  best 
Right  good  is  rest. 


344  POEMS  BY  THE   WAY. 

A  LIFE  scarce  worth  the  living,  a  poor  fame 
Scarce  worth  the  winning,  in  a  wretched  land, 
Where  fear  and  pain  go  upon  either  hand, 
As  toward  the  end  men  fare  without  an  aim 
Unto  the  dull  grey  dark  from  whence  they  came ; 
Let  them  alone,  the  unshadowed  sheer  rocks  stand 
Over  the  twilight  graves  of  that  poor  band, 
Who  count  so  little  in  the  great  world's  game ! 

Nay,  with  the  dead  I  deal  not ;  this  man  lives, 
And  that  which  carried  him  through  good  and  ill, 
Stern  against  fate,  while  his  voice  echoed  still 
From  rock  to  rock,  now  he  lies  silent,  strives 
With  wasting  time,  and  through  its  long  lapse  gives 
Another  friend  to  me,  life's  void  to  fill. 

—  FACING  TITLE-PAGB  OP  "THE  STORY  OP  GRETTIR 
THE  STRONG." 


WHILES  carried  o'er  the  iron  road, 
We  hurry  by  some  fair  abode ; 
The  garden  bright  amidst  the  hay, 
The  yellow  wain  upon  the  way, 
The  dining  men,  the  wind  that  sweeps 
Light  locks  from  off  the  sun-sweet  heaps  — 
The  gable  grey,  the  hoary  roof, 
Here  now  —  and  now  so  far  aloof. 
How  sorely  then  we  long  to  stay 
And  midst  its  sweetness  wear  the  day, 
And  'neath  its  changing  shadows  sit, 
And  feel  ourselves  a  part  of  it. 
Such  rest,  such  stay,  I  strove  to  win 
With  these  same  leaves  that  lie  herein. 
—  TITLE-PAGE  TO  "THE  ROOTS  OP  THE  MOUNTAINS.' 


WHILES  in  the  early  winter  eve 
We  pass  amid  the  gathering  night 
Some  homestead  that  we  had  to  leave 
Years  past ;  and  see  its  candles  bright 
Shine  in  the  room  beside  the  door 
Where  we  were  merry  years  agone 


"MASTERS  IN  THIS  HALL."  345 

But  now  must  never  enter  more, 
As  still  the  dark  road  drives  us  on. 
E'en  so  the  world  of  men  may  turn 
At  even  of  some  hurried  day 
And  see  the  ancient  glimmer  burn 
Across  the  waste  that  hath  no  way; 
Then  with  that  faint  light  in  its  eyes 
Awhile  I  bid  it  linger  near 
And  nurse  in  wavering  memories 
The  bitter-sweet  of  days  that  were. 
—  TITLE-PAGE  TO  "THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  WOLFINGS." 


"MASTERS  IN  THIS  HALL"43 


MASTERS  in  this  Hall, 

Hear  ye  news  to-day 
Brought  from  over  fea, 
And  ever  I  you  pray. 
Chorus:    Now-ell!    Now-ell!    Now-ell! 
Now-ell  f ing  we  clear  ! 

Hoi-pen  are  all  folk  on  earth, 
Born  is  GOD'S  Sox  f o  dear : 

Now-ell!    Now-ell!     Now-ell! 
Now-ell  fing  we  loud ! 

God  to-day  hath  poor  folk  raif'd, 
And  caft  a-down  the  proud. 

2 

Going  over  the  hills, 

Through  the  milk-white  fnow, 
Heard  I  ewes  bleat 

While  the  wind  did  blow. 

Chorus :  Nowell,  etc. 

3 

Shepherds  many  an  one 

Sat  among  the  fheep, 
No  man  fpake  more  word 

Than  they  had  been  afleep. 

Chorus :  Nowell,  etc. 


346  POEMS  BY  THE  WAY. 

4 

Quoth  I,  "  Fellows  mine, 
Why  this  guif e  fit  ye  ? 

Making  but  dull  cheer, 

Shepherds  though  ye  be  ?  " 

Chorus:  Nowell,  etc. 


"Shepherds  fhould  of  right 
Leap  and  dance  and  fing, 

Thus  to  fee  ye  fit, 

Is  a  right  ftrange  thing." 

Chorus:  Nowell,  etc. 

6 

Quoth  thefe  fellows  then, 
"  To  Bethlem  Town  we  go, 

To  fee  a  Mighty  LORD 
Lie  in  manger  low." 

Chorus :  Nowell,  etc. 


"How  name  ye  thif  LORD, 
Shepherds  ?"  then  faid  I, 

"  Very  GOD,"  they  faid, 
"  Come  from  Heaven  high." 

Chorus:  Nowell,  etc. 

8 
Then  to  Bethlem  town 

We  went  two  and  two, 
And  in  a  forry  place 
Heard  the  oxen  low. 

Chorus:  Nowell,  etc. 

9 

Therein  did  we  fee 

A  fweet  and  goodly  May 

And  a  fair  old  man, 
Upon  the  ftraw  She  lay. 

Chorus:  Nowell,  etc. 


"MASTERS  IN  THIS  HALL."  347 

10 

And  a  little  CHILD 

On  Her  arm  had  She, 
"Wot  ye  Who  This  is?" 

Said  the  hinds  to  me. 

Chorus:  Nowell,  etc. 

11 

Ox  and  af  s  Him  know, 

Kneeling  on  their  knee, 
Wondrous  joy  had  I 

This  little  BABE  to  fee. 

Chorus :  Nowell,  etc. 

12 

This  is  CHRIST  the  LORD 

Maf ters  be  ye  glad ! 
Chriftmafs  is  come  in, 

And  no  folk  fhould  be  fad. 

CJiorus :  Nowell,  etc. 


NOTES. 


1.   THE  DEFENCE  OF  GUENEVERE. 

IN  this  first  of  Morris's  published  poems  (1858)  the  character  of 
the  queen  is  conceived  in  the  genuine  mediaeval  spirit,  hot  and 
passionate,  and  far  more  intimately  human  than  in  Tennyson's 
Idylls.  The  poet  has  chosen  the  intensely  dramatic  moment  when 
the  queen  is  before  her  judges  at  Carlisle,  about  to  be  "brent  at 
the  stake"  for  "treason."  In  the  twentieth  book  of  Malory's 
Morte  Darthur,  in  chapters  i.  to  viii.,  it  is  related  how  Sir  Agravaine 
and  Sir  Mordred  entrapped  Sir  Launcelot  by  night  in  Queen  Guene- 
vere's  chamber ;  how  Launcelot  was  unarmed  save  for  his  sword, 
and  how  he  slew  Sir  Colgrevance  by  stratagem  and  armed  himself 
in  his  armour,  and  so  slew  Agravaine  and  twelve  other  knights  that 
were  with  him  and  wounded  Mordred,  but  Mordred  escaped  to  the 
king  and  told  him  of  the  affray  ;  how  the  king  mourned  for  the 
death  of  his  knights  and  condemned  the  queen  to  be  burnt  as 
"  causer  "  of  their  deaths,  and  also  because  she  was  untrue  to  him  ; 
"  and  how  Sir  Launcelot  and  his  kinsmen  rescued  the  queen  from 
the  fire,  and  how  he  slew  many  knights."  In  Malory,  however,  there 
is  no  mention  of  Gawaine,  or  Gauwaine,  as  the  queen's  accuser.  He 
rather  advises  the  king  strongly  against  this  extreme  measure  which 
resulted  in  the  final  estrangement  of  Launcelot  and  the  overthrow 
of  Arthur  himself.  On  p.  10,  1.  4,  "  shent"  =  destroyed. 


2.   KING  ARTHUR'S  TOMB. 

In  the  twenty-first  book  of  Sir  Thomas  Malory,  in  the  ninth  and 
tenth  chapters,  it  is  told  how,  after  the  wars  between  King  Arthur 
and  Sir  Launcelot,  and  the  battle  between  Sir  Mordred  and  Arthur, 
in  which  Arthur  and  Mordred,  and  all  the  remaining  knights  of  the 
Round  Table,  were  slain,  save  only  Sir  Bedivere  and  those  that  had 
left  Arthur  and  held  by  Sir  Launcelot ;  then  Sir  Launcelot  came  into 
England  with  Sir  Bors  and  a  great  following ;  how  he  learned  of 
the  death  of  Arthur,  and  how  he  sought,  alone,  for  the  queen,  and 
finally  found  her  in  a  nunnery  at  Almesbury  ;  how  she  bade  him  a 
solemn  farewell,  and  how  they  departed  one  from  another.  It  is  a 
stroke  of  genius  that  doubles  the  dramatic  power  of  this  scene  by 
changing  its  location  to  Arthur's  tomb  at  Glastonbury. 
349 


350  NOTES. 


3.    SIR  PETER   HARPDON'S  END. 

This  dramatic  romance  utters,  with  touches  of  genuine  lyric 
passion,  the  pathos  of  the  life  men  lived  in  the  days  that  John 
Froissart  chronicled.  In  the  pages  of  the  garrulous  old  Canon  men- 
tion is  made  of  a  Sir  John  Harpdon,  whose  lady  held  the  castle  of 
Fontenay  le  Cornte  for  a  time  against  the  constable  of  France,  but, 
beyond  this  barren  surname,  I  find  no  tangible  historical  basis  for 
the  story.  Yet  the  situation,  so  vividly  realized,  is  perfectly  typical 
historical  truth  in  incident  and  emotion,  if  not  historical  fact.  Sir 
William  Graville  captured  the  city  of  Evreux  by  a  stratagem  — 
hiding  an  axe  under  his  cloak  and  using  it  on  the  head  of  the 
governor  during  a  friendly  conversation  —  that,  perhaps,  suggested 
Lambert's  attempted  treachery  in  the  poem. 


4.   RAPUNZEL. 

In  the  familiar  "  Household  "  collection  of  the  Brothers  Grimm, 
the  story  of  Rapunzel  is  told,  essentially,  as  follows  :  A  man  lived 
with  his  wife  near  the  house  of  a  witch.  The  wife  desired  radishes 
from  the  witch's  garden,  which  her  husband  was  obliged  to  steal 
for  her.  The  witch  caught  him,  but  remitted  punishment  upon 
condition  that  she  be  given  the  rearing  of  his  unborn  daughter. 
She  took  the  child,  named  her  Rapunzel,  and  immured  her  in  a 
lonely  tower,  built  of  stone,  in  a  great  forest,  with  no  opening 
except  a  little  window  in  the  roof.  Through  this,  at  the  witch's 
command,  Rapunzel  was  wont  to  let  down  her  long  golden  hair  so 
that  her  tormenter  might  climb  up  and  visit  her.  The  prince,  wan- 
dering that  way  in  the  forest,  saw  the  fair  prisoner,  loved  her,  spied 
upon  the  witch,  and  then,  in  her  absence,  went  beneath  the  tower 
and  called,  "  Rapunzel,  Rapunzel,  let  down  your  hair  ! "  Rapun- 
zel, thinking  it  was  the  witch  that  called,  obeyed.  Thus  the  prince 
visited  her  often.  They  planned  her  escape,  but  before  it  could  be 
accomplished,  the  witch  discovered  their  plan,  carried  the  maiden 
away  into  the  midst  of  a  desert,  and  frightened  the  prince  so  that 
he  jumped  from  the  tower  top  into  a  thorn-bush  and  was  blinded. 
He  wandered  at  random  through  the  world,  and  by  chance  came 
upon  Rapunzel  in  her  solitude.  Her  tears  fell  upon  his  blinded 
eyes  and  cured  them.  And  the  prince  and  Rapunzel  lived  happily 
ever  after. 

It  is  interesting  to  see  what  a  small  part  of  this  very  simple  story 
Morris  has  chosen,  and  how  characteristically  he  has  wrought  the 
semi-dramatic  form  with  sensuous  colour  and  vague  imagery,  till 
the  effect  is  an  atmosphere  half  mediaeval,  half  of  dreamland. 

The  prince's  song,  with  the  "  Guendolen  "  refrain  (p.  57),  was  first 
printed  in  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  Magazine,  July,  1856,  under 
the  title  "  Hands."  The  only  changes  in  the  later  printing  are 
mere  alterations  of  word  order  —  in  the  second  line  of  the  second 
stanza  where  "rippled  yellow  hair"  is  altered  to  "yellow  rippled 
hair,"  a  distinct  improvement  in  the  rhythm,  and  in  the  third 
stanza  where  the  first  and  second  lines  are  interchanged. 


NOTES.  351 


5-7.  CONCERNING  GEFFRAY  TESTE  NOIRE. 

The  Teste  Noire  of  the  poem  is  a  type  of  a  great  number  of  free- 
booting  men-at-arms  who,  "under  the  shadow  of  the  English  name," 
preyed  upon  the  rich  fields  and  villages  and  the  helpless,  industri- 
ous peasantry  of  Brittany  and  Gascony  in  the  troubled  days  of  the 
Hundred  Years'  War,  when  the  English  and  their  Navarrese  allies 
held  the  realm  of  France  a  fair  booty  for  their  swords.  The  inci- 
dent is  typical,  rather  than  historical,  and  faithfully  reproduces  the 
military  atmosphere  of  the  period. 

"  Blackhead""  himself,  however,  is  a  genuine,  historical,  char- 
acter. See  Froissart's  Chronicles,  vol.  ii.  ch.  33,  wherein  it  is 
related  that  the  castle  of  Ventadour  was  "sold  or  betrayed  to  the 
most  cruel  of  all  Bretons,  Geoffry  Tete-Noire,"  who  with  his  troops 
kept  possession  of  Ventadour,  from  whence  they  ravaged  the  coun- 
try ;  also,  vol.  ii.  p.  315,  and  pp.  323  and  387,  how  Sir  John  Bonne 
Lance  besieged  Ventadour,  and  how  at  last  Geoffry  died,  and  was 
succeeded  in  his  power  by  his  nephews,  "  Alleyne  Roux  and  Peter 
Roux." 

The  reminiscence,  in  11. 99  et  seg.  (p.  60),  of  the  Jacquerie  of  Beau- 
vais,  refers  to  a  historical  outbreak  of  the  French  peasantry  about 
the  year  1357.  The  peasants  of  this  period  were  miserable  wretches, 
serfs  of  the  soil,  treated  by  their  masters  at  best  as  on  a  par  with  their 
other  animal  possessions.  They  seem  to  have  been  ferocious  beasts 
when  they  were  turned  loose.  Their  misery  was  aggravated  beyond 
endurance  by  the  depredations  of  the  contending  parties,  which 
were  so  often  repeated  that  large  tracts  of  country  were  utterly 
desolated,  and  the  yokels  reduced  to  nakedness  and  starvation.  In 
desperation  they  turned  upon  all  gentlefolk,  and  were  successful 
for  a  time  in  their  career  of  plunder  and  revenge.  John  Frois- 
sartsays  of  them  (Johnes  Translation,  vol.  i.  ch.  181)  :  "These 
wicked  people,  without  leader  and  without  arms,  plundered  and 
burnt  all  the  houses  they  came  to,  murdered  every  gentleman,  and 
violated  every  lady  or  damsel  they  could  find.  He  who  committed 
the  most  atrocious  actions,  and  such  as  no  human  creature  would 
have  imagined,  was  the  most  applauded,  and  considered  as  the 
greatest  man  among  them.  I  dare  not  write  the  horrible  and  in- 
conceivable atrocities  they  committed  on  the  persons  of  the  ladies. 
...  In  the  bishoprics  of  Noyon,  Laon,  and  Soissons,  there  were 
upwards  of  one  hundred  castles  and  good  houses  of  knights  and 
squires  destroyed." 

The  gentlemen  of  the  territories  infested  by  these  vermin  soon 
took  severe  measures  against  them,  cutting  them  down  without 
mercy,  or  hanging  them  to  trees  in  large  numbers.  The  king  of 
Navarre  destroyed  in  one  day,  "near  Clermont  in  Beauvoisis, 
upwards  of  three  thousand."  At  Meaux,  in  Eire,  the  Captal  of 
Buch,  and  the  Earl  of  Foix,  finally  discomfited  the  "Jacks,"  slay- 
ing seven  thousand  of  them,  throwing  them  in  great  heaps  into  the 
river,  and  finally  burning  the  town  with  a  great  number  of  the  peas- 
ants shut  up  in  it. 


352  NOTES. 


8.  THE  EVE  OF  CRECY. 

As  the  preceding  Shameful  Death  expresses  the  grimness  of 
the  age  of  chivalry,  and  the  following  ballad,  The  Gilliflower  of  Gold\ 
the  pathos  of  a  mediaeval  holiday,  so  the  Eve  of  Crecy  sings  the 
hope  of  the  knightly  freebooter.  The  following  quotation  is  elo- 
quent of  the  chances  of  war. 

Before  the  battle  of  Auray  (Froissart,  vol.  i.  ch.  226)  :  "In  the 
course  of  this  evening,  some  English  knights  and  squires  earnestly 
begged  of  Sir  John  Chandos  that  he  would  not  listen  to  any  over- 
tures of  peace  between  the  Earl  of  Montfort  and  Lord  Charles  de 
Blois,  for  they  had  expended  their  whole  fortune,  and  were  so  poor 
that  they  hoped,  by  means  of  a  battle,  either  to  lose  their  all  or  to 
set  themselves  up  again.  The  knight  assented  to  the  request." 

And  a  few  pages  later :  "  Sir  Ralph  Neville  served  under  Sir 
John  Chandos  with  thirty  lances,  at  his  own  expense  and  charges, 
out  of  what  he  had  gained  at  the  battle  of  Auray." 

9.   RIDING  TOGETHER. 

This  poem,  with  its  haunting  feminine  rhyme,  first  appeared  in 
the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  Magazine  for  May,  1856.  In  spirit 
and  in  metrical  effects  it  bears  a  strong  resemblance  to  Winter 
Weather,  which  had  already  been  printed  in  the  January  number. 
The  dramatic  quality  is  strong  in  them,  as  indeed  it  is  in  all  of 
these  mediaeval  poems. 

10.   THE  BLUE  CLOSET  ET  SEQ. 

Though  the  Blue  Closet,  written  for  a  picture  by  Rossetti,  is 
purely  a  dream  poem,  and  Praise  of  My  Lady  a  piece  of  pre- 
Raphaelite  idealism,  they  both  belong  with  the  foregoing  group 
of  poems,  by  reason  of  their  mysticism  and  vague  pathos  which 
are  unmistakably  of  the  mediaeval  inspiration. 

The  exquisite  Summer  Dawn,  pure  lyric,  was  first  published  in 
the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  Magazine,  October,  1866,  with  the 
title,  Pray  but  One  Prayer  for  Me. 


11.   THE  LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF  JASON. 

The  old  Greek  story  of  The  Quest  of  the  Golden  Fleece  was 
peculiarly  interesting,  because  of  its  romantic  nature,  to  Morris. 
He  first  planned  the  poem  as  one  of  the  stories  in  the  Earthly 
Paradise,  but  it  expanded  under  his  elaborate  treatment  until  it 
entirely  outgrew  the  limits  of  the  original  design  and  was  published 
in  June,  1867,  as  The  Life  and  Death  of  Jason.  It  was  the  first  of 
Morris's  poems  to  achieve  real  popularity,  running  through  eight 
editions.  It  is  impossible  by  brief  selections  to  give  any  adequate 
idea  of  the  richness  of  detail  and  the  power  and  scope  of  the  narra- 


NOTES.  353 

tive.    We  have  been  content  with  including  a  few  of  the  many  lyrics 
which  vary  the  measured  sweep  of  the  regular  verse. 

12.  A  Garden  by  the  Sea  is  the  song  of  the  water-nymph  who 
entices  Hylas  to  the  borders  of  the  little  Mysian  river,  and  lulls 
him  to  sleep  while  her  companions  bear  him  down  to  their  hidden 
home,  so  that  he  is  lost  forever  to  the  light  of  day,  and,  with  Her- 
cules who  wanders  far  and  near  in  search  of  him,  is  left  behind  by 
the  Argonauts  who  must  follow  their  quest.    The  version  here  given 
is  from  Poems  by  the  Way,  and  is  changed  from  the  original  form 
as  follows :  — 

Stanza  3,  1.  2.  —  close  is  substituted  for  place. 

1.  5.  — read  originally  "  The  hills  whose  flo  were  ne'er  fed  the  bee." 

1.  6.  —  Dark  is  substituted  for  The. 

L  7.  —  Tormented  is  substituted  for  Still  beaten. 

1.  12.  —  Whereby  I  grow  is  substituted  for  That  maketh  me. 

13.  0  surely  now  the  Fisherman  is  a  song  of  triumph  and 
exhortation,  sung  by  Orpheus,  as  his  shipmates  drive  Argo,  bearing 
Medea  and  the  Golden  Fleece  away  from  the  Colchian  town  of  ^Ea 
and  down  the  river  Phasis  toward  the  open  sea. 

14.  The  song,  Alas,  for  Saturn's  Days  of  Gold!  is  sung  by 
Orpheus  for  the  delight  of  his  comrades  camped  at  night  on  the 
shore  of  the  unknown  Northern  river  into  which  they  ran  when  cut 
off  from  a  direct  return  to  Greece.     It  is  interesting  as  a  sort  of 
mediaeval  dream  of  "  The  Golden  Age." 

15.  O  Death,  that  maketh  Life  so  Sweet  is  another  of  the  songs 
of  Orpheus  which  were  the  inspiration  of  his  comrades  in  their 
various  times  of  trial.     This  is  sung  on  the  open  Atlantic,  after 
Argo  has  been  drawn  overland  to  a  river  leading  to  the  Northern 
Sea,  after  a  winter  has  been  passed  in  the  Northern  forest,  and 
when  the  Argonauts  are  tossing  on  the  ocean,  nigh  the  Pillars  of 
Hercules. 

16.  The  Argonauts  and  the  Sirens.  —  Only  a  part  is  here  given 
of  the  long  antiphony  between  Orpheus  and  the  Sirens.    The  intro- 
ductory bit  of  narrative  will  serve  to  show  the  clear  flowing  quality 
which  characterizes  the  verse  of  the  whole  poem. 

17.  The  Tribute  to  Chaucer,  from  book  xvii.  of  the  poem,  while 
not  properly  a  song,  possesses  a  beautiful  lyric  quality. 

18.    THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE. 

The  story  cycle  called  The  Earthly  Paradise  was  written  by 
Morris  in  pursuance  of  a  long-considered  design,  in  the  years  1865- 
1869.  The  first  volume,  containing  parts  i.  and  ii.,  was  issued  in 
1868,  the  second  in  1869,  and  the  third  in  1870.  Much  might  be 
said  of  the  original  plan  and  the  deviations  therefrom,  of  the  growth 
of  the  poet  from  the  romantic  into  the  epic  method,  of  the  various 
sources  from  which  the  twenty -four  stories  are  drawn  ;  but  here 
only  the  briefest  statement  can  find  place. 

The  general  design  was  a  cycle  of  stories  drawing  from  all  the 
different  sources  of  ancient  legend.  The  general  method  was  con- 
fessedly Chaucerian, — straightforward,  narrative  verse,  —  but  the 
execution  is  more  romantic  than  Chaucer's ;  the  poet  is  more  given  to 


354  NOTES. 

embroidery.  Unity  is  secured  for  the  whole  cycle  by  the  mediaeval 
tone  and  setting  which  are  used  alike  for  Greek,  Oriental,  and  Teu- 
tonic legends,  and  by  that  which  justifies  this  mediaeval  treatment 
of  classic  themes, — a  trick  of  construction  like  that  used  in  the 
Canterbury  Tales.  A  group  of  wanderers  from  Europe,  in  the 
Middle  Ages,  finds  haven  in  an  island  of  the  sea  peopled  with  a 
race  preserving  the  classic  Greek  tradition ;  they  beguile  the  days 
by  relating  these  stories  of  old  time.  The  method  and  spirit  of  this 
constructive  prologue  will  be  made  clearer  by  quoting  its  argument 
and  introductory  lines. 


PROLOGUE  — THE  WANDERERS. 
ARGUMENT. 

"  Certain  gentlemen  and  mariners  of  Norway,  having  considered 
all  that  they  had  heard  of  the  Earthly  Paradise,  set  sail  to  find  it, 
and  after  many  troubles  and  the  lapse  of  many  years  came  old  men 
to  some  Western  land,  of  which  they  had  never  before  heard ; 
there  they  died,  when  they  had  dwelt  there  certain  years,  much 
honoured  of  the  strange  people. 

"  Forget  six  counties  overhung  with  smoke, 
Forget  the  snorting  steam  and  piston  stroke, 
Forget  the  spreading  of  the  hideous  town ; 
Think  rather  of  the  pack  horse  on  the  down, 
And  dream  of  London  small  and  white  and  clean ; 
The  clear  Thames  bordered  by  its  gardens  green ; 
Think  that  below  bridge  the  green  lapping  waves 
Smite  some  few  keels  that  bear  Levantine  staves, 
Cut  from  the  yew  wood  on  the  burnt-up  hill, 
And  pointed  jars  that  Greek  hands  toiled  to  fill, 
And  treasured  scanty  spice  from  some  far  sea, 
Florence  gold  cloth,  and  Ypres  napery, 
And  cloth  of  Bruges,  and  hogsheads  of  Guienne; 
While  nigh  the  thronged  wharf  Geoffrey  Chaucer's  pen 
Moves  over  bills  of  lading  — mid  such  times 
Shall  dwell  the  hollow  puppets  of  my  rhymes." 

The  Apology,  which  precedes  the  Prologue,  and  the  lines  from 
The  Author  to  the  Reader,  which  follow  it,  are  eloquent,  beyond 
any  explanation,  of  the  spirit  and  profound  purpose  of  the  whole 
work,  and  indeed  of  all  of  Morris's  poetry.  ISEnvoi  (p.  107) 
is  a  lyrical  tribute  of  surpassing  beauty  to  that  Chaucer  whom 
Morris  ever  looked  to  with  loving  reverence  as  his  "master"  — 
not,  be  it  remembered,  his  master  in  style  or  in  versification,  or 
even  in  methods  of  treating  a  theme,  but  in  the  great  general 
principles  of  narrative  poetry,  a  broad,  romantic  spirit,  and  the  story- 
telling power. 

19.  The  Months.  The  four  parts  of  the  Earthly  Paradise  corre- 
spond to  the  four  seasons,  and  for  each  month  there  are  two  stories. 
The  lyric  stanzas  which  introduce  each  month  are  related  to  the 
stories  only  as  the  illuminations  of  an  old  missal  are  related  to 


NOTES.  355 

the  matter  that  is  written  therein.  The  stanzas  for  June  recall  a 
day  spent  by  the  poet  with  his  family  on  the  upper  reaches  of 
the  Thames,  by  Eynsham,  and  the  Wytham  hills,  in  the  summer 
of  1867.  The  Hues  for  August  were  inspired  by  another  river  ex- 
cursion in  that  same  summer,  down  by  Dorchester  (see  Mackail's 
Life  of  William  Morris,  p.  187).  Those  for  October  recall  an 
autumn  day  at  Southwold  in  1868. 

20.  The  song  from  The  Love  of  Alcestis  is  sung  by  Apollo,  the 
herdsman  of  King  Admetus,  who  is  doomed  to  serve  on  earth  a 
year,  exiled  from  Olympus  by  the  wrath  of  Zeus. 

21.  The  song  from  Cupid  and  Psyche  is  heard  by  Psyche  as  she 
wanders  alone  through  the  house  of  Cupid,  wondering  at  each  new 
thing  that  meets  her  eyes,  wishing  for  music,  and  hearing  then  this 
song  by  an  unseen  choir. 

22.  Atalanta's  Race  is  a  beautiful  retelling  of  the  old  Greek 
story  that  is  too  well  known  to  need  comment  or  explanation. 

23.  Ogier  the  Dane  is  Celtic  in  origin,  taken  by  Morris  from  a 
French  romance  of  the  fourteenth  century  (this  is  stated  upon  the 
authority  of  the  biographer). 

24.  The  Fostering  of  Aslaug,  the  story  of  the  daughter  of 
Sigurd  and  Brynhild,  is  from   Icelandic  sources ;   its  main  facts 
were  taken  by  Morris  from  Thorpe's  Northern  Mythology  (vol.  i. 
p.  109)  before  he  became  familiar,  at  first  hand,  with  the  Volsunga 
Saga. 

These  three  tales  have  been  selected  from  the  twenty-four  which 
compose  the  Earthly  Paradise,  because  they  adequately  represent 
the  three  main  sources  from  which  the  poet  drew  his  material,  and 
because  certain  others,  —  notably  The  Lovers  of  Gudrun,  which  is 
an  epic  in  its  own  right  and  a  superb  rendering  of  the  Laxdcela 
Saga,  —  that  are  intrinsically  as  excellent,  are  too  long  to  find 
place  in  this  collection. 


25.   SIGURD  THE  VOLSUNG. 

Sigurd  the  Volsung,  published  1876,  is  a  verse-rendering  of  the 
prose  Volsunga  Saga,  written  in  Iceland  in  the  twelfth  century,  of 
which  Morris  had  previously  made  a  prose  translation.  This  Ice- 
landic story  is  the  oldest  form  of  the  Teutonic  race  epic,  the  story  of 
Siegfried,  or  Sigurd,  and  the  Nibelungs,  which  is  better  known  to 
the  modern  world  through  the  Old  High  German  Nibelungenlied, 
and  Wagner's  opera  cycle,  Die  Ring  des  Nibelungen. 

Morris's  poem  has  the  grandeur  and  breadth  and  many  of  the 
other  qualities  proper  to  a  great  epic,  but  is  faulty  in  structure 
because  it  uses  too  much  of  the  Saga  material.  The  story  of  Sig- 
mund  and  Signy  and  Sinfiotli,  which  fills  two  books  preceding  the 
birth  of  Sigurd,  is  tremendous  in  itself,  but  detracts  from  the  unity 
of  the  complete  poem,  and  forms  too  long  a  prelude  to  the  great 
story  of  Sigurd  and  Brynhild  and  Gudrun.  We  have  endeavoured  to 
take  from  the  poem  passages  long  enough  to  represent  adequately 
the  power,  the  profound  beauty  of  the  narrative.  It  is  impos- 
sible by  any  selections,  however,  to  give  an  idea  of  the  real  scope 


356  NOTES. 

of  the  story,  which  is   intrinsically  one  of  the  greatest  in  the 
world. 

26.  Of  the  Forging  of  the  Sword  that  is  called  the  Wrath  of 
Sigurd  is  an  episode  in  the  youth  of  the  hero,  — how  he  obtains  for 
himself  the  sword  Gram,  which  of  old  Odin  gave  to  his  father 
Sigmund. 

27.  Sigurd  slayeth  Begin.     With  the  sword  which  Regin  the 
Dwarf  had  forged  for  him,  Sigurd  has  done  his  first  exploit,  the 
slaying  of  Fafnir,  the  ancient  Serpent  who  guarded  the  gold  of 
the  dwarfs. 

28.  How  Sigurd  awoke  Brynhild.     Having  become  possessed 
of  the  dwarf -treasure,  the  hero  rides  "the  way  of  Fate"  to  the 
mountain  where  lies  sleeping  Brynhild,  the  Valkyr,  whose  fate  is 
tragically  linked  with  his  by  the  will  of  the  Norns. 

29.  How  Sigurd  met  Brynhild  in  Lymdale.      The  hero,  going 
his  ways  in  search  of  adventure,  conies  to  Lymdale,  and  there 
meets  his  love  again. 

30.  Of  the  Passing  away  of  Brynhild.       Sigurd,  in  his  search 
for  adventure,  comes  to  the  burg  of  the  Niblungs,  and  there  gains 
great  fame  ;  through  the  guile  of  Grimhild,  the  witchwife,  he  is 
made  to  forget  Brynhild  and  to  many  Gudrun,  the  sister  of  the 
Niblung  kings.     Thereafter  he  adds  to  his  renown,  wins  Brynhild 
for  his  brother-in-law,  Gunnar,  and  is  murdered  through  the  jealousy 
of  Brynhild,  by  the  Niblung  brothers. 

31.  Of  the  Battle  in  AtlVs  Hall.    Gudrun  has  been  married  to 
Atli,  king  of  the  Eastland,  but  has  not  forgotten  her  husband's 
murder.     In  revenge,  she  instigates  Atli  to  entice  her  brothers  to 
his  capital,  where  they  are  set  upon  by  the  Eastern  warriors,  and 
with  their  small  retinue  make  a  wondrous  defence ;  so  that  the 
fight  here  recorded  is  the  greatest  fight  in  Teutonic  legend. 


32.    FROM  THE   UPLAND   TO  THE   SEA. 

This  lyric  is  a  curious  instance  of  the  fashion  in  which  Morris 
looked  back  upon  Greek  mythology  through  mediaeval  glasses.  It 
was  originally  written,  along  with  Meeting  in  Winter  for  The  Story 
of  Orpheus,  which  was  designed  for  Earthly  Paradise,  but  was 
omitted  from  that  series.  The  two  lyrics  were  then  published  in 
1891,  in  Poems  by  the  Way.  The  subject  of  this  song  is  Greek, 
and  some  of  its  imagery,  but  the  diction  is  aggressively  Northern, 
and  the  spirit  unmistakably  belongs  to  the  romantic  Middle  Age. 


33.   THE   HALL  AND  THE  WOOD. 

First  published  in  the  English  Illustrated  Magazine,  February, 
1890,  then  in  Poems  by  the  Way.  This  poem  illustrates  very  well 
the  strong  hold  that  Iceland  had  taken  of  Morris's  mind  in  later 
life.  The  subject  is  mediaeval, — English,  perhaps  —  a  sort  of  Robin 
Hood  story,  —but  the  simplicity  of  spirit,  the  circumstances  of  set- 
ting, the  details  of  treatment,  are  of  the  Saga  inspiration. 


NOTES.  357 


34.    GUNNAR'S  HOWE  ABOVE  THE  HOUSE  AT  LITHEND. 

The  occasion  of  this  reverent  tribute  to  the  oldest  Icelandic  liter- 
ature was  Morris's  visit  in  1871  to  Iceland,  and,  in  particular,  to 
Lithend  and  the  "  ho  we,"  or  burial  mound,  of  Gunnar.  This 
Gunnar  of  Lithend  is  a  semi-historic  hero  in  the  Njala  Saga,  the 
best  of  the  old  prose  heroic  stories,  and  must  not  be  confused  with 
Gunnar,  the  king  of  the  Niblungs  and  brother  of  Gudrun  in  the 
Volsunga  Saga. 

35.   THE  FOLK-MOTE  BY  THE   RIVER. 

This  poem,  first  published  in  Poems  by  the  Way,  represents 
Morris's  ideal  dream  of  the  workings  of  the  simple  political 
organization  of  Iceland  in  the  tenth  and  eleventh  centuries.  A 
return  to  something  of  the  same  sort  was  in  his  socialistic  vision 
of  the  reform  of  English  society.  The  general  conditions  here 
seen  working  on  such  a  momentous  occasion  prevail  in  the  fasci- 
nating prose  romance,  The  Sundering  Flood,  and  in  News  from 
Nowhere,  which  is  the  author's  dream  of  a  future,  peaceful  England 
—  a  neo-mediseval  Utopia. 

36.   THE  BURGHERS'    BATTLE. 

Originally  printed  in  The  Athenaeum,  June  16,  1888.  In  spirit 
this  is  the  immediate  complement  of  The  Folk-mote  by  the  River. 
Its  utterance  of  the  stolid,  grim  determination  of  men  fighting,  not 
for  glory,  but  for  a  principle,  seems  incomparable.  The  pathos  of 
the  ever-recurring  burden,  or  refrain,  is  almost  heart-breaking  from 
its  very  monotony. 

37.   THE  VOICE   OF  TOIL. 

First  published  in  a  little  pamphlet  called  Chants  for  Socialists, 
by  William  Morris,  dated  1885,  and  bearing  upon  its  title-page  the 
•watchwords  "Agitate,"  "  Organize."  Besides  The  Voice  of  Toil, 
this  pamphlet  contained  The  Day  is  Coming,  The  Message  of  the 
March  Wind,  and  Down  among  the  Dead  Men,  which  are  included 
in  this  collection,  and  three  other  songs,  written  for  popular  tunes 
and  of  small  merit  —  No  Master,  All  for  the  Cause,  and  The  March 
of  the  Workers. 

The  Voice  of  Toil  was  published  by  Morris  in  his  Poems  by 
the  Way,  with  a  single  line  changed  — the  last  line  of  the  fifth 
stanza,  which  read  in  the  pamphlet  form  :  — 

"  When  our  mirth  is  crime  and  our  love  a  snare." 


38.  THE  MESSAGE  OF  THE  MARCH  WIND. 

First  printed  in  The  Commonweal,  March,  1883.     Afterwards 
included  in  the  Chants  for  Socialists,  mentioned  in  the  preceding 


358  NOTES. 

note,  and  reprinted  in  Poems  by  the  Way,  1891.  In  succeeding 
numbers  of  The  Commonweal,  Morris  expanded  this  poem  into  a 
longer  poem,  The  Pilgrims  of  Hope. 


39.   A  DEATH  SONG. 

November  13, 1887,  was  "  Bloody  Sunday  "  for  the  Socialists  of 
London.  A  great  meeting  that  had  been  called  for  Trafalgar 
Square  was  broken  up  by  the  life  guards  and  the  police,  and  a 
terrific  riot,  verging  on  open  revolt,  was  barely  averted.  Alfred 
Linnell  died  of  injuries  received  in  the  struggle,  and  Morris,  who 
had  been  one  of  the  marchers  in  the  Socialist  columns,  wrote  this 
Death  Song,  to  be  sold  as  a  penny  pamphlet  for  the  relief  of 
Linnell's  orphans. 

40.    SONGS  FROM  LOVE  IS  ENOUGH. 

The  three  lyrics  here  given  are  selected  from  among  the  musical 
interludes  of  Love  is  Enough,  or  The  Freeing  of  Pharamond, 
a  morality,  first  published  in  1872.  The  songs  are  made  for  music, 
and  intended  to  serve  as  transitions  between  the  different  parts  of 
the  poem,  which  is  dramatic  in  form  and  of  a  very  intricate  and 
carefully  wrought  "architecture."  It  is  more  elaborate  in  con- 
struction and  in  finish  than  any  other  of  Morris's  poems. 


41.    VERSES  FOR   A  BED-HANGING. 

Written  for  the  catalogue  of  the  fourth  exhibition  of  the  Arts 
and  Crafts  Exhibition  Society,  1893.  Full  title :  No.  200.  Cur- 
tain  and  Vallance.  Part  of  a  bed-hanging  for  Kelmscott  Manor, 
Lechlade.  Woolwork  on  linen. 


42.    MASTERS  IN  THIS   HALL. 

This  translation  of  an  Ancient  French  No$l  is  taken  from  Antient 
Christmas  Carols,  by  Edmund  Sedding.  In  the  collection  it  is 
No.  8.  "  The  English  words  written  expressly  by  William  Morris, 
Esq.,  B.A." 


INDEX  OF  TITLES. 

PAGB 

Alas !  for  Saturn's  Days  of  Gold 92 

Apology,  An 105 

Argonauts  and  the  Sirens,  The 96 

Atalanta's  Race 121 

Author  to  the  Reader,  The 106 

Battle  in  Atli's  Hall,  Of  the 275 

Bed  Hanging,  Verses  for  a 343 

Blue  Closet,  The 83 

Burghers'  Battle,  The              329 

Concerning  Geffray  Teste  Noire 59 

Cupid  and  Psyche,  Song  from 118 

Day  is  Coming,  The 332 

Death  Song,  A 339 

Defence  of  Guenevere,  The 3 

Down  among  the  Dead  Men    .......  340 

Drawing  near  the  Light 338 

Eve  of  Cr<5cy,  The 69 

Folk-mote  by  the  River,  The 322 

Forging  of  the  Sword  that  is  called  the  Wrath  of  Sigurd,  Of 

the 219 

Fostering  of  Aslaug,  The 178 

From  the  Upland  to  the  Sea 2S9 

Garden  by  the  Sea,  A 91 

Geoffrey  Chaucer,  To .102 

Gilliflower  of  Gold,  The 70 

Goldilocks  and  Goldilocks 296 

Gunnar's  Howe  above  the  House  at  Lithend  .        .        .        .321 

Hall  and  the  Wood,  The 291 

Haystack  in  the  Floods,  The 74 

Hill  of  Venus,  Song  from  The 119 

Hope  Dieth  :  Love  Liveth 290 

House  of  the  Wolfings,  Lines  from  title-page  of  The       .        .  344 

How  Sigurd  awoke  Brynhild  upon  Hindfell    ....  240 

How  Sigurd  met  Brynhild  in  Lymdale 257 


360  INDEX  OF  TITLES. 

PAGE 

How  Sigurd  took  to  him  the  Treasure  of  Andvari  .        .        .  236 

Judgment  of  God,  The 72 

King  Arthur's  Tomb 12 

L'Envoi 107 

Love  is  Enough,  Songs  from 341 

Love  of  Alcestis,  Song  from  The 117 

Man  Who  Never  Laughed  Again,  Song  from  The  .        .        .120 

"  Masters  in  this  Hall " 345 

Message  of  the  March  Wind,  The 335 

Mine  and  Thine 338 

Months,  The 110 

"  O  Death  that  maketh  Life  so  Sweet" 95 

"  O  Surely  now  the  Fisherman  " 92 

Ogier  the  Dane 140 

Old  Love 65 

Passing  Away  of  Brynhild,  Of  the 266 

Praise  of  My  Lady 86 

Rapunzel 48 

Riding  Together 79 

Roots  of  the  Mountains,  Lines  from  title-page  of  The    .        .  344 

Shameful  Death -67 

Sigurd  slayeth  Regin 229 

Sir  Peter  Harpdon's  End 24 

Son's  Sorrow,  The 319 

Story  of  Grettis  the  Strong,  Lines  from  title-page  of  The       .  344 

Summer  Dawn 88 

Voice  of  Toil,  The 331 

Winter  Weather  80 


A    000  027  298    9 


THE    COMPLETE   WORKS    OF 
EDMUND    SPENSER. 

With  an  Introduction  by  WILLIAM  P. 
TRENT,  of  Columbia  University,  and  Life  by 
J.  WALKER  MCSPADDEN.  In  one  volume, 
930  pages,  8vo,  gilt  top,  in  box.  Prices,  cloth, 
?2;  half  calf,  $3.50;  full  limp  seal,  |4.50. 

The  publishers  may  be  congratulated  for 
their  noteworthy  success  in  compressing  the 
"Complete  Works  of  Edmund  Spenser"  within 
the  limits  of  a  single  volume.  This  volume, 
though  apparently  large  in  its  number  of 
pages,  has  been  kept  down  to  convenient  size 
through  the  laudable  co-operation  of  the 
paper-maker  and  binder.  As  to  the  text  it- 
self, It  includes  not  only  Spenser's  poetical 
and  prose  works — some  of  which  reappear 
here  for  the  first  time — but  every  variety  of 
scholarly  aid  for  the  reader.  Professor  Will- 
iam P.  Trent  contributes  an  introduction  dis- 
cussing the  poet's  position  in  letters  and  in 
the  reading  world  to-day,  and  considering 
various  pieces  of  writing  separately.  Then 
follow  a  "Note  on  Spenser's  Language  and 
Metres"  and  a  "Bibliographical  Note."  A 
"Life"  of  the  poet  is  given  by  J.  Walker 
McSpadden,  wherein  the  facts  and  traditions 
clustering  around  Spenser's  career  are  sum- 
marized as  clearly  as  possible,  and  a  definite 
account  of  the  man  and  his  work  set  forth. 

The  Table  -of  Contents  contains:  "Dedica- 
tory Verses,"  "The  Faerie  Queene,"  ''The 
Shepheards  Calender,"  "Colin  Clouts  Come 
Home  Again,"  "Astrophel,"  "Epithalamion," 
"Prothalamion,"  "Fowre  Hymns,"  Sonnets 
and  other  shorter  poems,  "A  View  of  the 
Present  State  cf  Ireland,"  in  prose  dialogue 
form,  and  "A  Briefe  Note  of  Ireland"  to 
Queen  Elizabeth,  a  rare  document  not  before 
reprinted  with  Spenser's  works.  Following 
the  reading  text  come  "Variations  from  the 
Original  Editions,"  Glossary,  and  an  Index 
to  First  Lines.  In  brief,  the  full  text  of 
Spenser's  writings  is  given,  in  the  original 
spelling  and  punctuation,  but  in  modern 
typography,  together  with  every  detail  of 
scholarship  which  a  worthy  edition  should 
include.  This  volume  will  take  its  place  as 
the  most  complete  of  the  few  reliable  reprints 
of  the  "poets'  poet." 

THOMAS  Y.   CROWELL  &  CO., 
426  AXD  428  WEST  BROADWAY, 

NEW  YORK. 


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